


The Princely Bride

by whichstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Princess Bride Fusion, Dread Pirates Roberts, F/M, Inspired by Princess Bride, Kidnapping, M/M, Pirates, SPN Holiday Mixtape, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 12:19:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13076748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: A fairy tale adventure about a beautiful young man named Sam Winchester, and his journey to recover the love of his life. Inspired by the movie, The Princess Bride.





	1. Once upon a time

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always astonished that The Princess Bride wasn't originally released at Christmas, given the Santa decorations we see next to the grandson and grandfather. I've decided to take that tiny, tiny hint of Christmas and use it as an excuse to write this for the SPN Holiday Mixtape Challenge. Enjoy!
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to [zaphodsgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaphodsgirl/pseuds/zaphodsgirl/works) for beta reading this very long story at the very last minute. You are THE BEST and made this story so much better.

Metatron's recovery was slow. He lay in bed, plucking fretfully at the covers, first pulling them up to his chin, then lowering them to a neat fold just under his chest. "I'm bored," he complained. 

Chuck rolled his eyes, hands propped on his hips. He wore an old tan sweater, misshapen from overuse and tied around his waist with a faded bathrobe tie. Chaos sounded from downstairs. The Bumpus' dogs yowled in the back yard, waiting for their chance to invade the kitchen and fit their jaws around the turkey Chuck was cooking in the oven. Tinny Christmas music overlaid the howls, the sound of _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_ warbling like it was playing underwater. Mistletoe dangled over Chuck and he rolled his head to stare at it as he said, "How can you be bored when you have all of creation to explore in this place?" He gestured around the close, early 1980's inspired bedroom. "Why are you still here?" 

Metatron coughed pathetically. "It's a comfort thing," he said petulantly. "And I need comfort. Your sister Amara trapped me in a sucking vacuum for years before you pulled me out. I was constantly being torn apart, reformed, and then sucked right back into the event horizon again. You're lucky nothing worse happened to me. After all my years of loyal service..." He smoothed the bedcovers over his pajamas.

"And that's another thing," Chuck said, pointing to Metatron. "Why the hell are you still in that body?"

Metatron patted his dark curls and delicately featured face. He looked like a very young Fred Savage. "It’s comforting," he scowled. "And so is Christmas. If you'd pulled your head out of your ass every once in awhile in all those centuries you spent on Earth you might've learned to enjoy it. You know, I'm doing this for you as much as for me."

"You asked me to have three ghosts visit you last night, one of whom threatened you over your own open grave. How is that comforting?"

Metatron clicked his tongue. "You're a musician and a writer. How you could turn out to be such a philistine is--" He stopped at Chuck's glare and held up his hands peaceably. "Fine. Fine. Maybe someday." He yawned weakly and stretched his thin arms up over his head. "I just need a little more rest and then I'll be ready to start editing your latest, ah, masterwork. Will you read me a story?"

A book and a spartan wooden chair appeared next to his bed. The book was large with a thick blue cloth cover and a golden embossed title on it that read, _The Princess Bride_. Metatron glanced meaningfully between Chuck and the book.

"This again?" Chuck sighed as he picked up the book and settled onto the chair. 

Metatron looked affronted. "It's a classic! But fine. You're the storyteller here. Just keep the spirit of it the same, okay? Because--"

"It's a comfort thing," finished Chuck, wearily. "Fine." He leaned back and his eyes shuttered as he retreated into his mind. Then he smiled and tapped at the book cover which now read, _The Princely Bride._ "Much better," Chuck said, then opened the book and began to read. 

* * *

Once upon a time, in the idyllic and sun-kissed hills of Florin, there lived a young man named Sam Singer who grew up on his adoptive family's small vineyard. He had come to live with Robert "Bobby" Singer when he was just a small baby and had weathered the ups and downs of life alongside the Singer family. He'd been with Bobby during the loss of his wife, and during years of drought and plenty. The vineyard was his home and Bobby, his only family. Every year he tended the grapes and worked the harvest, putting in long hours in the field through Florin's long growing season. When he wasn't working, Sam had only two hobbies: riding his horse and reading as much as he could get his hands on in their small town. 

One spring day he'd stumped into the house after a long afternoon in the field, swiping his hand across his sweaty brow and brushing aside the long hair that had escaped from his tied back locks. The house was quiet, so Bobby was probably checking the bud swell on the further field. A golden lump of bread sat on the sideboard in the kitchen and the smell of warm yeast filled the air. He leaned against the wall as his toes pried off each boot in turn. Sam scraped at the creases in his brow and drew his hand back with a grimace. The wind had been blowing especially hard today and the sandy soil of the valley clung to his skin. He'd wash up a little and then eat before heading back out. His latest book, a cracked copy of _Don Quixote_ , sat on their worn wooden table in a puddle of sunlight. Sam looked longingly at it. Surely he could spare a few minutes to read as he ate, if he was very careful not to mar the book with crumbs. He washed his hands, sliced his bread, and settled with a deep sigh at the table. Lovingly, he caressed the cover and then opened the book to his marker. 

Sam was only a few pages into his reading (and several bites into his bread) when Bobby loudly cleared his throat behind him. Sam jumped and slammed the book shut, jamming the bread into his mouth. "Hey Bobby," he mumbled through his mouthful, turning halfway towards Bobby to hide his guilty flush. 

To his surprise, Bobby crossed his arms and laughed at him. "You know," he said fondly, "it's been years since I had to haul you outta the barn by your ear to do your chores, some book flapping under your arm." He held up his hand as Sam started to rise. "No, no, finish your meal, boy. Talked to Castiel this afternoon. He said we’re first priority for his new colonies. He’ll bring his bees to the vineyard whenever the vines flower. Awful nice having a beekeeper around now." Castiel was a reclusive and somewhat mad beekeeper who lived up in the hills near their farm. He’d arrived one day a few years ago with little fanfare, eating a quick meal in the village before hiring a local child to escort him to the land he’d recently purchased, sight unseen. The recluse had built a small house there, clean and competently made but tiny, and stayed there alone up in the green quiet hills. Sam suspected that the only reason Castiel talked to the Singers was because he’d needed to contract his bees out to pollinate the grapes. Bobby crossed the room and straddled a chair, leaning his elbows on the table. He poured himself a tankard of watered wine from the pitcher on the table, closing his eyes in apparent bliss as he took several long gulps. When he finally set it down with a satisfied sigh, his gaze fell to the book. "Up to a good part yet?"

Sam laughed. "They're all good parts. And, yeah. Cardenio's talking about Lucinda. How he fell in love." 

Bobby humphed noncommittally at that. "I'll take your word for it." He sighed. "You always were a reader. Woulda gotten along great with Karen. Two peas in a pod." Melancholy stole over his features as his smile fell away. 

"Bobby..."

Bobby shook his head and placed both palms on the table, pressing into it as though steeling himself for a storm. "Well," he said quietly, as though to himself. "No time like the present. Son," he said. "You've worked hard here. Harder than I'd done myself as a boy. And you got a real active mind. I can see your head workin' all the time."

Sam started to shake his head, suddenly realizing where this conversation was going. "No, you don't--"

"You're going to University," Bobby said. "It'd be a shame to waste a brain like yours in my little sandy farm."

"I told you before. I can't just leave you," Sam protested, dropping the rest of his bread on the table. Crumbs scattered across the grooved surface like stars. Hope and fear warred in his chest. He'd dreamed of traveling to the university, of course. But it had been a distant dream - something to light his daydreams. But leave the farm? "I can't leave you alone, Bobby. You know you can't manage the place with just one person."

"You ain't gonna be leaving me in the lurch," Bobby said. He finally looked up and met Sam's gaze. His mouth still drooped but his eyes shone brightly. "I already hired someone real good to cover for you. Comes with great references. Hard worker. Knows her way around the work. She can pick up the slack until you're done with your studying." Bobby shrugged. "And then...we'll see. I want you to travel to the city. Attend University. Meet someone special. And when you're ready, come back here with some of the world under your belt. Hell, maybe you can make this little farm run better. We ain’t changed up our farming since my dad’s time. You might pick up a trick or two that you can bring back home."

Sam sat, slack-jawed. "But this... The expense?" His brain rattled with reasons not to leave.

But Bobby would have none of it. "Son, you're going. We've got the savings built up and you can stay with my cousin in town. Besides, I've already hired the girl. Once she's trained, you can head off with a clear mind. Go for a year. Try it out." He pinned Sam down with a steely look. "Karen woulda wanted it."

As usual, that was the final word on the matter. Sam nodded slowly as a warm glow built in his chest, bubbling outward. He grinned at Bobby as the reality of their conversation sunk in. He was going to University.

And so it was that Eileen began to work at the farm.

* * *

Metatron pinched the bridge of his nose in his fingers. "Okay, the back story is...involved. A few notes." He looked up. "More swords! More swash! Less buckle."

Chuck lowered the book and arched one eyebrow. "You wanna read this to yourself?" Metatron sank back against his stacked snowman-patterned pillows with a sullen grunt. "That's what I thought," Chuck said with a pleased smile, and continued...

* * *

“Quit fidgeting, boy,” Bobby said sharply as Sam paced the length of their small common room. His impatient scowl was lit by the honeyed gold of the flickering fire. It was several hours past sunset and Bobby’s new farmhand had not yet arrived.

Sam stopped in his tracks and balled his fists. He huffed a short breath that almost approached a laugh at Bobby’s fierce expression. “I’m just...worried.” Although initially filled with excitement about leaving home, Sam felt like he was slowly sinking into a pit of guilt. Bobby and Karen had given him a home when he had none. The thought of leaving Bobby, even for a short time, felt like he was walking away from a heavy debt. This wasn't helped by Karen's entreatment to him before she'd died to take care of Bobby. "Don't let him get lonely," she'd said on one quiet evening while Bobby snored in a nearby chair. “Take care of him for me.” It was with this churning sourly in his stomach that Sam waited to greet Eileen on her first day at the farm. 

Bobby leveled a stern look at Sam. “There’s nothing to worry about. Jody swears she knows the job. She’s real convinced that Eileen will be a good fit here and I trust her opinion.” 

“But what if she’s not--” Sam deflated when he met Bobby’s mulish expression. A knock sounded and Sam spun on his feet and headed for the door. He pasted on a smile, threw open the door and froze in surprise. Jody had told them a little about Eileen in a long letter she’d sent entreating Bobby to hire her. Eileen had worked at a string of farms, though none for very long. Although apparently an expert viticulturist, she’d had trouble finding “the right fit.” Sam had met many solitary farmers in the surrounding hillsides who possessed fewer social graces than a sack of beans. He had expected Eileen to be cut from the same surly cloth. 

The woman smiling up at him seemed to fit none of the molds he had precast for her. She was slight and short with long brown hair drawn back into a practical tail at the nape of her neck. Her brown eyes were warm and bright and as soon as Sam opened the door her expression bloomed into a wide, beautiful grin. “Hello,” she said. “Are you Sam?”

Sam just stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded. “Eileen?” he said finally. “I mean, yes. I’m Sam. Uh.” He scratched the back of his neck and felt himself turning red. 

Her smile faded a little. “Nice to meet you, Sam,” she said slowly, as though speaking with a child. “I apologize for arriving so late. We broke a wheel on the way inland.”

“No. It’s fine,” Sam said. He wanted to press his hand to his chest. He felt oddly breathless. “Come in. You can meet Bobby and then we’ll get you settled into your quarters.”

“Thank you,” she said with a businesslike nod and followed him inside.

Bobby greeted Eileen warmly, with a firm handshake and a rough clap on the shoulder that caused the bag looped over her shoulder to sway against her hip. “That all you have?” He nodded at her satchel.

Eileen shook her head. “I have a bedroll on the porch,” she said. “I wasn’t sure where I’d be bunking.”

“You’ll be quartered in a room off the equipment barn,” Bobby told her. “Sam will show you the way. We start at sunrise around here. Breakfast’ll be here,” he jerked his chin towards the squat woodstove in the corner and the adjacent table, “and then we’ll head out.”

Eileen treated them to another wide grin. “Sounds perfect,” she said. 

Bobby crossed his arms and tilted his head at her. “Now Jody tells me you can’t hear a damn thing, but you can read what we’re saying by looking at how we move our mouths, right?” 

Eileen lifted a brow, apparently surprised at this bare question. “That’s right,” she affirmed. 

“Good, good,” Bobby said. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem but you ever have a question, you just let us know. It’s too dark to give you a tour of the farm and you look dead on your feet. So why don’t you settle in and we’ll talk over breakfast in the morning. Sam will take you around.”

“That sounds very good,” she said, her eyes twinkling with some secret amusement. “We’ll speak then.” She looked to Sam who shot her a sheepish grimace and then beckoned for her to follow him right back out of the house and outside.

The moon cast a silvery glow over the rolling hillsides of trellised grapes. Once outside Eileen stooped to tuck her thin bedroll under her arm and then she followed Sam as he led the way around the back of the house towards the barn. 

Sam raised his hand to point out features of the farm visible in the moonlight, beginning to speak before he remembered that she couldn’t hear a word he was saying and since she was walking behind him, she also couldn’t read his lips. Blushing, he halted and turned towards her, grateful to the moonlight for illuminating his face enough so that when he told her where to find the outhouse, she only smiled at him and thanked him quietly. Warmth saturated his ears by the time they reached the small barn and he unlatched the door. “Well, this is it,” he said awkwardly and then gestured for her to follow him into the dark barn. 

A small anteroom divided the doorway from the main part of the barn. There were two worktables piled with equipment and tools awaiting repair, and a door leading to the main barn. Sam pulled it open, scraping a path through the sandy dirt floor. He walked through it, hearing Eileen close it behind them with a quiet clank of the bolt. The barn itself was a wide, bright space in daylight when the doors were thrown wide and relatively clean of vermin thanks to the cats who had taken up residence in the old hayloft. Tonight the barn flickered with pale orange light from the woodstove fire Sam had started as soon as sundown approached. Its light shone warmly from the doorway of the clean, neat room they had prepared for Eileen. 

Sam led the way into the room and then turned around in the small space, opening up his arms to encompass the bare paneled walls. “Well,” he said. “Here’s your room. There’s a window that opens up to the meadow and extra wood is just around the corner over there.” Sam pointed towards the stall that backed the little bedroom. “I’ve got wine set out and,” Sam took the few steps to the little table by the bed and lifted a heavy towel to reveal a round of golden bread and a wedge of cheese, “something to eat, in case you haven’t yet.” 

Eileen tilted her head at him, her eyes soft as she said, “Thank you, Sam.” She dropped her bedroll to the cot and set her bag next to it. Then she looked at Sam for a long moment. “It’s quite late. Good night?” she finally said, a hint of question in her tone. 

Sam jumped. “Oh! Sorry. Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair and tucked it behind his ears. “Good night,” he said and turned to leave. He paused with one foot out the door and slowly turned to face her. "I hear that you talk with your hands."

Her eyes crinkled in an expression of delight. "How do you know that?" she asked.

“Jody told Bobby. If you want-- That is, if you don’t mind--” Sam ground his teeth feeling desperately embarrassed by his utter lack of a functional brain. “Would you mind teaching me some of it before I leave?”

Eileen smiled again and it felt like sunshine pouring into the small room. "As you wish," she said with a wry twist of her lips.

* * *

“Aha!” Metatron shouted gleefully.

Chuck sighed and rolled his eyes expansively towards the ceiling. “You really think I’d leave that out?”

“I think you get easily distracted,” Metatron said, his nose turned towards the ceiling. “That’s all.” He fluttered his hand. “Well, carry on.”

* * *

Sam spent the next two months on the farm helping to show Eileen the ropes. The Singers were pleased to find as summer advanced that Eileen was indeed an expert with the grapes. Though slight, she proved to be astonishingly strong and she and Sam put in long hours together setting posts and planting new stock before Sam left for the capital. They were often busy with manual tasks during the daylight hours, but long evenings were spent together by the fire or in the heat of summer, on the sunset-lit porch. In the evenings their hands were constantly moving, but in speech instead of work. Slowly Eileen taught Sam (and to a lesser extent Bobby) how to talk without speaking a word. 

Sam found her a delightful companion, sharp-witted and surprisingly well read for someone who was, by all reports, an itinerant farmhand. When the time came for him to leave for the university, he found that he once again had mixed emotions. Now that he had gotten to know Eileen and seen her converse extensively with Bobby, he no longer worried about leaving him behind while he studied. Bobby and Eileen got along fantastically well. Instead, as Sam waved farewell and started down the dirt road to catch the mail coach in town, he found that he was the lonely one. He would miss Bobby and, entirely unplanned, he would miss Eileen. “You’ll write to me, won’t you?” he had asked her the night before as he rechecked his pack. 

“I haven’t anything to write with,” Eileen had said looking crestfallen. Sam opened his bag and pulled out a small bundle of precious paper, a feather quill, and his inkpot. He set them on the kitchen table and looked at her pointedly. “Oh, Sam. I couldn’t take these. You’ll need them.”

Sam shook his head. “These things are easier to get in the city. I’ll get more then. Please,” he said. “Please write to me.”

Eileen smiled one of her golden smiles and finally nodded. “As you wish,” she said.

* * *

The following summer Sam traveled back to the farm, his mind full of ideas. The university was a miracle and Sam arrived home feeling blessed to have attended for the past year. In addition to agriculture, he had studied everything he could get his hands on. 

The farm had prospered during his absence. They’d had unprecedented good weather to aid the fall harvest. Eileen had expertly managed the vines over the winter so that grapes now grew fat on them. 

Sam walked up the quiet path, inhaling the familiar mineral scent of the hills he’d only smelled in dreams for the past several months. It was Sunday and the farm was quiet. The house seemed to sit empty on top of the hill. Though Bobby knew he was traveling home at the end of term, Sam had made good time, hitching a ride with a merchant on their way to the seaside. Nobody would expect him this early. Sam tightened his grip on his bag, sucked in a deep breath, and walked up the stairs that led to the porch. He pushed open the door. 

Bobby turned towards him with a flurry of signed speech but his hands dropped when he saw Sam lurking in the doorway. “Sam!” He jumped up and hurried across the room. “You’re home early!” He embraced Sam tightly, drawing him inside. “Good to see you boy.” He leaned back and mock-scowled at Sam from head to toe. “I swear you’ve gotten even taller.” He shook his head until the scowl dropped from his face. “Eileen!” he said, pounding enthusiastically on Sam’s shoulder. “Look who’s back!”

Sam whirled to see Eileen standing on the porch behind him, her customary smile looking almost bashful as she drew up one hand and said “Hello.” 

How had he forgotten how beautiful she was? Sun kissed her hair like a halo as it streamed in through the doorway. “Hi. Hello,” Sam said, fumbling the sign and cursing at his clumsiness. “How have you been?” 

“Very good, Sam.” She bobbed her head for a moment, looking as though she was trying to hide her face against her shoulder. “Welcome home.”

Sam jammed his hands in his pockets, nerves streaking through his body, and then pulled them out again almost immediately. They had avidly exchanged letters during Sam’s absence. He’d come to think of her not only as a friend, but as one of only two people who knew him best. The need to impress her seemed paramount to anything else. “Thanks,” he said, dropping his bag onto the floor. “Everything looks great here.” 

“Eileen,” Bobby said. “Why don’t you take Sam around? Show him what we’ve been up to this year?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, something swooping in his gut. “I’d love it if you could show me around.”

Eileen drew her lips to the side as though trying to contain a laugh. Then she looked into Sam’s eyes and said quietly, “As you wish.” It was then, as Eileen looked with quiet joy up at Sam, that he realized that he loved her.

* * *

“Get. To. The. Kissing.” Metatron knocked his head back against his pillows in frustration.

Chuck closed the book on his finger and rested it on his lap. “You know for someone pretending to be Fred Savage pretending to be a kid with a cold, you’re awfully off brand. I thought that character was supposed to hate kissing.”

“Romance is one of the pillars of human culture” Metatron told him severely. “Only a fool would try to claim otherwise.” He rubbed his hands together. “Come on. Bring on the kissing. Get to the love confessions! And then,” Metatron said with a sparkle in his eye, “we get to the good part.”

“And what’s that?”

“The terrible, soul crushing angst.”

Chuck was silent for a little while, his brow drawn into a pucker. “I don’t think romance means what you think it means,” he said finally, then picked up the book and resumed the tale.

* * *

Sam’s realization that he loved Eileen settled like embers into his veins and dumbfounded, he followed her outside and into the fields to get reaquainted with the farm. 

That evening, Bobby pled exhaustion early and left Sam and Eileen to talk alone on the porch. Soft light remained on the summer horizon outlining the hills in a warm coral glow. Eileen sat on the ancient wooden rocker slowly tipping back and forth with the graceful movement of one foot. They talked quietly but animatedly together. Although they had written to each other frequently, Sam realized that nothing compared to seeing emotions wheel across Eileen’s beautiful face. 

Crickets whirred as the moon rose, painting the land dove gray. Sam looked at Eileen, feeling a wild emotion thrash in his chest. _I love you. I love you._ The words backed up in his throat. Eileen asked him questions about his studies, his coursework, his long meandering trip back home - and Sam answered them almost reflexively as the stars wheeled above the hilltops. Finally he drew a deep breath and nervously tucked his hair behind his ear. “Eileen,” he said at last. “How do you sign ‘I love you?’”

Eileen gasped and her jaw dropped open, hands hovering. She stared at him and slowly lowered her hands to her lap. It was her way of gathering her thoughts and taking some space to think. Finally she shook her head, as though pulling herself out of a daze. She said slowly, "As you wish." Her mouth twisted up into a glorious smile. And Sam knew. She loved him too.

All through that long, warm night they talked about their future in definite, practical terms that Sam had only daydreamed about before. They would marry after the harvest, in the fall as gold crept over the land. Although Eileen had lost both parents to the same smallpox outbreak that had stolen her hearing, she insisted on traveling home to bring her longtime guardian to the farm for the wedding. “I will only be away a few weeks,” she assured Sam. “And then we’ll be together.”

Sam took her hands and pressed each palm to his lips. Dew frosted the vineyard blushing to life under the rising sun. “Very well,” he told her. “I shall miss you every day.”

“And I, you,” she said. Eileen left soon after on a morning when mist rolled over the hills like waves. She left with a small purse - enough to buy passage on the ships that would carry her away and back again - and the clothes on her back. “I love you,” she told Sam that morning, pulling him down for a lingering kiss. “I’ll see you soon.”

Sam watched as she disappeared into the mist, feeling like half his heart walked down the hill with her. When word of her journey came a month later Sam collapsed where he stood. Eileen's ship had been overcome by the Dread Pirate Roberts as it crossed the sea to her homeland. She was lost.

She was lost. 

* * *

“Now this is the kind of quality content I came here for,” Metatron chortled. He reached behind him and pulled a bag of peppermint chocolate popcorn from the aether, ripped it open, and began to crunch noisily.

“Are you good now?” Chuck asked drily.

“Mmmph yeah, good,” Metatron said happily around a mouthful of popcorn. He grinned a chocolatey grin. “Continue.”

* * *

After Eileen died, Sam endured the remains of a joyless summer. He thought he could lose himself in the vines and exhaust himself with work. But there was no leaving behind the memories. All season he paced through the vines. When late fall descended and cast a dull gray tone over the countryside, Sam began to talk.

"Bobby," he said one evening as they sat warming themselves by the fire, "I would give anything--" his voice broke.

"I know," Bobby said in quiet commiseration. He shifted in his chair, tipping his tumbler forward so the wine swirled in a languorous fragrant circle. 

"How long did it take for it to stop hurting so much?"

Bobby grimaced ruefully down at his drink and for the space of a few minutes nothing could be heard above the crackling of the fire. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Sometimes things happen in our life that shape us forever. They change us - and whether it's for good or not - is up to us. I ain't gonna lie to you, son. It hurts a little every damn day and some days it hurts a hell of a lot more. But every day you keep going. And one of these days it's gonna get better, even if it’s only a little. Hear me, son?"

Fall melted into winter and as the seasons rolled over their small farm, Sam’s ache began to ease into something duller and easier to bear. He hadn’t lost everything. He still had the farm, and Bobby. But the thought of loving another woman again was impossible. More than that, it sickened him. 

That was why, when the royal messenger arrived on their humble doorstep a year after Eileen’s death with a preposterous offer of marriage, Sam laughed in his face and slammed the door. 

* * *

Moments later Sam opened the door again. The messenger was still there, a stormcloud expression on his face. Sam blanched and shook his head, the smile fading. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must have misheard you. Did you just say marriage?”

The messenger flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his plum-velvet clad shoulder and frowned. A large plume dangled from his hat as he jerked his head at Sam. “Her esteemed royal highness the Princess Lilith of Florin requests your hand in marriage.”

“What’s this?” Bobby called from within the house. “Who’s at the door, Sam?”

“Uh,” was as intelligent a response as Sam could get out and he heard Bobby stumping across the room to join him at the door. 

The visitor drew himself up, seeming to inflate to double the size as he puffed his chest out. "Her Inestimable Princess Lilith has sent me here to bestow a great honor upon you both," he said, looking between them. "She has sent me to offer for your hand in marriage, Sam Singer."

Sam's jaw dropped and he looked to Bobby in surprise. "The princess," he repeated in flat surprise. “Marriage? Me?”

At the same time Bobby said sharply, "What are you talking about?"

The messenger’s look grew severe, and he unrolled a parchment he had clasped under his arm and began to read. “Having met Sam Singer at a grand ball at the palace; and having danced with the aforementioned, the Princess hereby declares her intentions to marry the aforementioned at the annual Christmas ball next year.” He looked up at Sam over the parchment pompously. 

“But I met her over a year ago,” Sam sputtered. “We danced twice. I don’t understand.”

The messenger pursed his lips primly. “Well,” he said finally. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

"But why me?" stressed Sam.

The visitor's appraising look traveled along Sam. “The princess has made certain remarks about your...beauty.” His eyebrows jumped. “Not unwarranted.”

Sam, to his chagrin, felt himself blush at the words. “I’m nothing special,” he muttered. 

“Her Most Exquisite Highness begs to differ.” The messenger dug in a leather pouch he wore at his waist until he pulled out another scroll. “Read this,” he said. “I’ll wait.” Then he settled back into a stance akin to a military rest pose and chose a spot on the porch wall to focus on while Sam unrolled the scroll.

It was a marriage contract. A cold prickle spread through Sam as he skimmed through it. He'd stopped entertaining the idea of marriage, or even the notion of a casual relationship, after Eileen had died. It felt like a laughable dream to be here, now, reading through a marriage contract from royalty as though this was actually a viable option in his life. When he reached the marriage price he froze. He'd never seen a sum so massive in all their years of harvest - even in the best and most fruitful years. He felt Bobby’s hand plucking at his sleeve and allowed himself to be drawn away, back into the house. The door stood ajar behind them, framing the royal messenger who continued to stare intently at an invisible spot on the side of the house. 

“You don’t have to do this, son.” Bobby’s words were quiet and calm and he looked at Sam earnestly. 

Sam laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Of course I do,” he hissed. “It’s a request from the royal house. It might as well be an order under armed guard and you know it.” Sam rattled the paper between them. “And this price, Bobby. God, you’d be able--”

“I don’t care about any dang price,” Bobby said loudly and Sam winced as the messenger stirred on the porch. “I just want you to be happy again.” He shook his head fiercely. “I just want you to be happy.”

Sam closed his eyes at this and brought one shaking hand to his forehead as he stared at the parchment. This was his chance to repay Bobby for his kindness. He'd marry the princess and sire her heirs. He’d do his duty to the kingdom and send as much of the benefit to Bobby as possible. His stomach rolled uneasily but he said, “I’ll do it. I’m doing it. I have no other choice.” Sam glanced out of the doorway at the slow swell of summer, the sweet smell of grapes perfuming the air, and realized with a jolt that he would once again be leaving his home. He felt sick. “A Christmas wedding,” he said quietly. “It won’t be so bad,” he told Bobby, attempting to reassure both of them. 

“Sam,” Bobby said sadly. He looked deflated, his shoulders slumping. 

Sam raised the parchment and pinched it so tightly that it ripped a little under the pressure of his fingers. “A Christmas wedding. So be it,” he said in a final tone, dazed at how much life could change in the space of a few minutes. Then he turned around and stalked back to the door to speak with the messenger. 

* * *

"A Christmas wedding? Really? Could you get any more treacly?" Metatron's complaint cut into the story, drawing Chuck up short. 

Chuck dropped the book to his lap, fingers slipped between the pages, and sighed in exasperation. "It’s a comfort thing, right?" Chuck said with a disapproving scowl. “I thought you were on a big winter holiday kick.”

"Who edits whom here?" Metatron asked, raising his young brows in clear disdain. “I’m just saying it’s a bit unoriginal. I mean how many made-for-TV-movies hinge on that as a plot device?”

Chuck clicked his tongue in irritation but said nothing further. Instead, he opened the book up again, holding it up to block Metatron's knowing smirk, and continued to read.

* * *

A year passed. Once Sam became the princess’ betrothed, there were still contracts to sign and royalty to impress. Another fall fell over the hills like a patchwork blanket of red and gold. It felt abrupt to Sam, who had seen much of the past year consumed by all the tasks that awaited a prince-to-be. He’d followed the messenger to the capital to formally accept and be introduced to his future bride and the people of Florin. By all accounts he had comported himself well, though the palace seemed coldly formal. His whole time there he’d felt gossip balancing like a dagger’s edge on the back of his neck as he passed through the halls. The princess had exhibited the only warmth, inviting him to explore her kingdom and quietly correcting his many mistakes of etiquette as he’d been introduced to the palace staff, other nobility, and the excited public. He’d been allowed to travel to and from the palace to his home to arrange his affairs, pack up his belongings, and help Bobby locate yet another farmhand. 

Sam departed for the capital for the final time on a gray autumn day turned damp by occasional drizzle. The harvest was nearly done but Sam could wait no longer. His wedding loomed ahead in a matter of months. He’d sent ahead most of his belongings already, delivering them to the castle to await his arrival. Then he’d taken leave of Bobby.

“Come to the palace early,” he begged. “Live the fine life while the vines go to rest and we can explore the city together.” 

Bobby grunted and pulled Sam into a tight embrace. “Won’t be more than a month here showing Benny the ropes and then I’ll be right behind you.” Unspoken was the sentiment that he wouldn’t leave Sam alone as he embarked on a loveless marriage. It was a fate Sam had reconciled himself to; if love was not his destiny then at least his marriage would be of use to somebody - to Bobby, or the people of Florin. 

The road that morning was utterly quiet, save for Castiel the beekeeper who hummed something tuneless as his ass ambled a few steps away from Sam's horse. He'd announced his intention a few days ago of joining Sam on his final journey to the seaside palace. Castiel had beeswax and jars of honey to sell and a saddlebag of finely worked candles to light the winter darkness. 

Sam glanced at his companion whose song seemed to climb up and down the same five notes without end. He sat on his donkey wrapped in a long cloak that trailed past his ankles. His saddle bags appeared to be heavy, overstuffed, and they surrounded him like absurd pillows. Castiel had adopted a far-off gaze, staring up through the trees at the patchy sky visible through the changing leaves. He didn’t talk much, but Sam found he wasn’t very interested in exchanging pleasantries. Only a few more days of travel would see him arrive at the palace. He would shed his simple farmer’s garb forever, don a crown, and begin a new life. Apprehension clogged his thoughts.

The trees dangling over the little road were haunted by crows. The birds shook their wings at each other and muttered like cantankerous theater-goers overhead. Travelers appeared over the crest of a hill heading towards Sam and he nudged his beast towards the side of the road to let them pass. Their small wagon trundled slowly towards Sam and Castiel, the two huddled drivers managing the plodding horse in front. Sam raised a hand in greeting as they drew near, ready to pass them by with a friendly nod.

"Wait," Castiel said harshly, suddenly.

Sam swung his head around, slowing his horse to stand next to Castiel's ass. "Cas? What--"

"Sam," Castiel said and his voice came out sharp like a blade. He fumbled up his wide wool sleeve and pulled out a short silver sword. 

“Whoa,” Sam exclaimed, words fleeing him. What was Castiel doing with a sword? The other man glared with dagger-like intent at the wagon, his face transformed from the somewhat mad beekeeper Sam had come to know. In his place was a panther, eyes glittering as they fixed on the wagon. “Are you alright? What’s going on?”

Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver from the road. "When I tell you to run," Castiel growled. "Run."

* * *

“Finally! Swords!” Metatron exclaimed, throwing his small fists in the air. He reached behind him for a large mug of hot cider swirling with spices, and sat forward in bed attentively. He noisily slurped his drink and when Chuck shot Metatron his own dagger look, Metatron shrugged. “It’s hot. Keep going. Keep going.”

* * *

Sam stared at Castiel in befuddlement, then turned towards the wagon to see what on earth had set the beekeeper on edge. As he watched one of the drivers leapt up from the front of the wagon. The man moved quickly, flying up as though weightless from the wagon seat, a blur of brown and black and silver. Before Sam could blink or even begin to process what he was seeing, the man hit the ground and began to run at them full tilt with a drawn sword glinting in his hand. A shocked breath punched out of Sam as he fumbled for his own weapon.

He closed his fist around his own paltry blade, a long knife better suited for cutting up apples than slicing up a man. Sam sucked in a fearful breath and tried to steel himself for a fight. He’d never raised a blade, or even a fist in challenge to a man before. 

There was a blur to his side. Castiel had jumped from his donkey and hit the ground running as lithe and quick as a cat. He began to run towards the bladed assailant. “Run, Sam! Now!” he yelled.

In response, Sam slid from his horse, shifting his blade to his left hand to wipe his sweaty palm on his coat. He tossed his knife to his dominant hand again and ran towards Castiel and the man from the wagon. 

Castiel had greeted their assailant with a raised blade. Their swords screeched where they met, metal sliding angrily against metal. Castiel was fast with his blade, the silver of it flashing high and low as he fought with foil and fist and foot. Their assailant had the advantage of reach, wielding a full sized sword that whipped around like a striking snake through the air. Castiel grunted in pain as red bloomed along his pectoral muscle and Sam jumped into the fight to support him as he faltered. 

“Give up now. You’re outnumbered,” Sam grunted. He tried to slice his knife across the man’s side but the fighter seemed to slither out of reach almost without effort. His blade danced with Sam’s knife, then with Castiel’s. A grim smile played on his lips as he whirled around them. Castiel wove his short sword in strange patterns, bobbing around the attacker’s weapon like a bee exploring a vine. Castiel nicked him and Sam crowed to see a flash of blood. This only served to make the assailant grin more broadly. He twisted his sword around Sam’s knife, his blade somehow catching on Sam’s and forcing it from his hand. The knife landed several feet away in a cloud of dust. Sam peeled away and scrambled for it, lungs screaming for air. 

Something creaked from the direction of the wagon and the wood groaned as loud as agony. Sam shot a glance in that direction and froze, his hand on his weapon, his body in a desperate crouch. The wagon gave a great, rocking heave and then a huge figure rose from the back of it. The person must have been curled up in the back to stay concealed until this moment. Sam gasped as a giant figure rose up from the wagon and stepped down easily over the oversized cart wheels. “Cas,” he yelled and Castiel looked towards Sam, and then the wagon for a quick moment. 

That one moment of inattention was all Castiel’s attacker needed. The swordsman aimed a direct blow to Castiel’s upper arm cutting a cruel slash across it. Castiel cried out in pain, his entire arm convulsing as the blade sliced through his swirling cloak. The sword came away red and in a lightning quick move, the swordsman knocked Castiel’s blade away into the dusty road. He jammed the tip of his sword into the hollow below Castiel’s throat and Castiel suddenly became very, very still. Red spread along the side of his cloak while Castiel panted at the blade’s edge, his chin tilted up to the sky. 

Sam scrambled to his feet, his inadequate knife held up defensively. He backed away from the approaching giant slowly, warily. As she neared him, Sam could see the giant’s features. She had an oddly rueful smile lighting her face, and she was enormous. “Stay back,” Sam ordered fruitlessly, brandishing his weapon. 

The giantess smirked and then looked over at her companion who held Castiel at bay. “What do you think?” she asked him.

The swordsman tilted his head as though pondering a deep philosophical quandary. “A little too feisty for my taste.”

“Both of ‘em?”

“Yeah,” the swordsman replied. 

While they spoke Sam watched for an opening and seized it, leaping towards the giantess with his blade extended. It met her just below her abdomen and sank in several inches. The giantess laughed. Sam pulled desperately at his stuck knife while her fist swung around and connected with his head. Black sparked in his vision and then he slipped into darkness.


	2. On the boat

Graceful old trees stretched over the road forming a tunnel of green and gold. The light shining through the canopy cast the prisoners’ faces in an almost unearthly light. Dean pressed his forefingers to the throat of the young man they’d set out to kidnap that morning. Sam Singer, their target, still lay slumped in the back of the jouncing wagon, unconscious and wrists bound. His pulse was strong and Dean settled back on his haunches, grateful for that, at least. Sam would recover, albeit with one hell of a headache at first. Dean scrubbed one hand over his face. Lord, he was exhausted.

The boy’s guard lay on the opposite end of the wagon. Dean had uncovered and pocketed three more short blades from the man’s person before he’d tied him up and tended to his wounds. The guard now lay on the remains of his tattered cloak with his wrists and feet bound. Strips of shirting wound around the deep gash in his upper arm and the cut across his chest had already stopped bleeding. Dean frowned as he looked at the wounds. The guard’s shirt had fused to the drying blood on his chest. They might need to cut it away before too long. Dean dug through the guard’s packs, past mystifying packets of beeswax and pots of honey, before he found a few neatly bundled shirts supporting the bottom of the bag. He pulled them out and stuffed them into his own carrysack. Crowley had given them orders not to loot Sam’s possessions, but Dean figured a purloined shirt wouldn’t hurt. Crowley kept them in the dark about their journey and Dean wanted to be prepared.

The guard had fought well, his fast blade and graceful movements showing years of experience. But as with all fighters Dean had encountered, the guard wasn’t as fast as Dean nor a match for his lifetime of training. After Donna had knocked out the young prince-to-be, Dean had slammed the hilt of his sword against his prisoner’s temple. The man crumpled instantly, eyes rolling back, and Donna had easily hauled both Sam and his guard to the waiting wagon. 

Crowley had eyed Sam’s guard with distaste. “He’s not supposed to be guarded!” he shouted, face turning tomato-red with rage. “Kill him.”

Dean glanced at Donna who froze in the act of placing the two men in the wagon. She shook her head at him and Dean said, “We’re not killing him. That wasn’t part of the deal. Besides, they seemed close. Maybe we can play them against each other.” Crowley blustered and growled but in the end, Sam’s guard was taken as well. Dean sighed and settled back against the creaking wagon side. This job, once so simple, was becoming increasingly complicated. 

The guard’s breathing had been loud and regular as they rolled over the low foothills but now it suddenly stuttered quiet. As quickly as his breathing had gone quiet, it picked up again, loud and regular. Dean planted his back firmly against the wagonside and grinned at the prone man. “I know you’re awake,” he said. Dean spoke quietly, conscious of Crowley’s proximity and uninterested in being overheard. 

Slowly, the guard peeled one eye open, then the other, and gazed at Dean. “Why did you take us?” he asked in equally low tones, his voice deep and rough with pain or exhaustion. 

Dean smirked, though he didn’t feel any real mirth at the question. He may have hoped to avoid getting this far into the dirty work of kidnapping and ransom, but he was here now. Only a fool would talk about his goals to a hostage. “Your arm should be fine,” he chose to say instead and the man grunted and tucked his chin to his right shoulder so he could see the bandage. 

"You've bound up my wound," he said. He moved it carefully and grimaced. "And you seem to have done a good enough job."

Dean tossed out a real grin at that. "What a tone of surprise. You think I'd make it long in this business if I didn't know how to bandage wounds?" 

The man squinted at him, head still tilted towards his shoulder. "No, I suppose you wouldn't." He made a movement as though he were rolling to push himself up when the rope Dean had tied around his wrists stopped him short. As an extra precaution, Dean had looped the rope through a metal tie down in the wagon bed. He sighed heavily, as though exasperated. "Is this rope really necessary? I'm injured."

Dean laughed outright at that. "Come on. I've seen you fight. You think I'd leave your hands free?"

Castiel glowered at being caught out and he slumped against the wooden wagon bottom again. "Is Sam alright?" he asked. 

"Yeah, he'll be fine. He got a knock on the head, same as you. Been snoring like a cat with a cold this whole time." They both looked over at Sam who was indeed still rattling away in his sleep. Aside from a bloody lip and the lump on his head, he looked uninjured. He seemed younger than his twenty-four years as he slept and Dean struggled to suppress a wave of pity for the boy who had caught a mess of trouble simply by virtue of marrying royal. 

"What will you do with him?" the guard asked. Dean looked away from Sam. Just beyond the crest of the hill the sea glimmered, a glowing strip of blue speckled with sun bright flecks of white. "You won't tell me," the man answered himself eventually. "Is it money, though? Ransom? Whatever you wish to be paid surely you must know that ill treatment will reflect poorly on the bargaining price. Injuring him in any way will--"

"Look, he's fine," Dean said shortly. "And I--" He stopped short before more could tumble from his mouth. The truth was, he didn’t know exactly why Crowley wanted the boy. When Dean agreed to the job, Crowley had declined to say, merely stating that he needed the help of Dean and his giantess friend to kidnap the princess’ fiance. Dean, desperate for the job for reasons entirely unconnected with money, had decided not to question it. The likely scenario was that Sam would be ransomed quickly and returned. Somehow they would all flee with their lives - Crowley and Donna with money and Dean with the vital information he'd been seeking for most of his life. 

The silence between Dean and the guard stretched on. A blank mask had once again fallen over the guard’s eyes and Dean asked, to change the subject as much as anything, "So what are you? His personal guard, or something?"

"Or something," the man replied. At Dean’s inquiring look he elaborated with a deep sigh. “I was heading to the capital to sell my wares. Honey. Candles.”

“Honey and candles?” Dean swore. "You can’t be serious. The way you fight?” He frowned at the worn wagon boards and shook his head slowly. “Still, I'd wondered. All that beeswax in your bag.”

The man glared daggers at Dean. “You’ve gone through my things?”

“Only… Only a little bit." The man looked away and Dean peered at him. "You were just riding with him, then? Do you even know him? Did we just--?" The man refused to say anything but Dean read the answer in his face. "You're not the palace guard, or even a personal one," he said. "We really did just--"

"Kidnap someone entirely unrelated to your little plot?" The man said drily. "It appears to be so, yes." He sighed. "Still, Sam and I are friends and I would have fought for him in any scenario." His mouth quirked enigmatically and then he asked, "What would you do with me then? You've clearly let me live. Bound my wounds. Yet you’ve also brought me along. I can deduce by this that you're met with a need for great secrecy. No witnesses and urgency to reach your destination. You could just kill me but you haven't." Dean tried to school his expression into the same neutral look the beekeeper seemed so skilled at delivering but had to admit defeat when his eyes brightened. "You won't kill me yet. You need me as leverage. Against Sam." A muscle jumped in Dean's jaw and he looked away in defeat as the beekeeper said, "You have a long journey ahead of you, don't you? And you need me as assurance of his behavior, you think. Where are you taking him?"

Dean sighed and risked a cautious glance up at Crowley. The man's back was turned; he seemed wholly fixated on driving the horse down the twisting dirt road that led to the shore. Still he might be listening. Dean lowered his voice to a near whisper. "Yeah. Okay. We got a way to go. But if you cooperate then nobody will get hurt." He grimaced, looking at the beekeeper’s injury. "More hurt, anyway."

The man lay back with a grunt. Dean could feel those blue eyes burning into him. He had the uncomfortable impression that his very soul was being scoured, and found lacking. Finally, the man said, "You can call me Castiel."

"Sorry?" Dean looked at him with surprise. 

With a ghost of a smile, he said again, "Call me Castiel, or Cas. If I am to be your prisoner for some time then I wish to be referred to as more than ‘you there’ or similar monikers."

Dean rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. He knew his role in this story. He'd read it for years in novels as a child. He was the brutish captor, uninterested in friendship, cold and cruel. Anything else might invite the rebellion of his prisoners. But the man looked at him calmly and that alone made this suddenly seem like a more civilized exchange, as though Dean's descent into criminality had suddenly become legitimized by the mere weight of Castiel's stare. "Dean," he said finally. "My name's Dean."

"Dean," Castiel said carefully. "I can't say it's good to meet you, of course. But I trust that you will keep us safe." 

Dean stared into his eyes for a long moment, wishing he could offer promises of safety for the whole party. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back, slipped his hand to the comfort of his sword hilt, and looked away. They were nearing the docks now. If all went well this would all be over soon. "Of course, I'll keep you safe." The promise felt like dust in his mouth. 

* * *

At the docks Dean leaped down from the wagon and bustled to the waiting boat. He busied himself with checking their supplies and testing the ropes that would hoist the sails. The boat rocked wildly as Donna boarded the small craft. “Donna, how goes it,” he called out to her.

“Oh, I’m just fine,” Donna said with an edge to her usual sunny tone. “How are your new friends? Ya seemed pretty chatty back there.”

Dean felt his neck flush and he hid it by ducking his head into the narrow hold and fishing out a coil of rope. “Turns out,” he said, unwilling to meet her eye, “that we kidnapped the princess’ fiance and...get this. A random bystander.”

“No. Dean!” Donna sounded scandalized and he slowly turned to face her. Her expression was a mix of disgust and horror and Dean deflated under her scrutiny. “Dean, what in the heck did you get us into?”

Dean hissed, reminding her of the need for quiet. Crowley was busily arranging something on Sam’s horse but he was still potentially within earshot. “I’m sorry, alright? This wasn’t in the plan. Look, there’s still time to get out of this. I’ll work on Crowley tonight and try to get what I need and we can go.”

Donna harrumphed at that.

“What?” Dean snapped, though his gut turned sourly. 

“Just...wondering what we’re doing here, my friend.”

“Getting ready to sail,” Dean said shortly. 

Donna lowered her voice after casting a glance at Crowley. “This isn’t what I signed up for, Deano. Kidnapping? What’s next? Murder? I’m about a pig’s eyelash away from walking.”

“I know. I know,” Dean hissed. “I'm sorry alright? I didn't think we'd even get this far. Thought I'd worm the information out of him by now but damn if Crowley ain't tighter than…” He sighed. “Look. Just a little longer and Crowley will get his ransom, I’ll get my information, and we’ll go.” Donna said nothing, running one hand along the ocean-scoured mast. “Donna, you with me?”

She sighed and looked over at him. “For now, Deano. For now.”

They were interrupted by Crowley’s shout to Donna and Dean to haul the prisoners into the boat. She stepped off onto the dock, wood creaking in protest under her weight. Dean sighed, and followed her back to the wagon. Donna refused to look at him as she lifted Sam’s still-unconscious form into her arms and carried him to the boat. Dean shook his head sadly at her retreat, then removed his belt knife and snicked it open. 

Castiel flinched minutely as the blade flashed and Dean held up both hands. “I’m just gonna cut you out of here, okay?” Castiel nodded and leaned back so his hands lay exposed on the wagon bed. The rope was fraying, evidence that Castiel had been frantically sawing the rope against the metal tie down while his captors had been otherwise occupied. Dean lifted his brow to Castiel as he fingered the fraying strands and Castiel responded with a hard look of his own. Traitorous blood again rushed to his ears and Dean bent to the task of sawing Castiel out of the wagon and splitting the rope that bound his feet. When he finally looked up again Castiel was gazing at him solemnly. “What,” Dean snapped when the silence stretched on too long.

"You don't seem to fit the kidnapper profile," he said finally.

Dean’s gut, already in turmoil over his increasingly shredded plans, twisted. He would agree, except here he was kidnapping two people. Thinking of himself in those terms hurt. Dean tried to push it from his mind and turned the question back on Castiel. “Kidnapper profile, huh?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light as he gathered Castiel’s wrists in his hands and began to guide him from the wagon. He winced at the raw marks on his wrists, burned from his struggle to break the rope. “Fancy talk for a beekeeper.”

“Well, I wasn’t always.”

“A little young for retirement, don’t you think?” Dean cast an appraising look at Castiel and then immediately regretted it. They were very close now, Castiel leaning on him to carefully edge off the side of the wagon. This close his eyes seemed very blue. Dean cleared his throat and pushed away, putting some distance between them even as he was hit with a sudden longing to take Castiel’s weight as he helped him down. “Living the good life, huh?”

Castiel looked down at his worn clothing and then back up at Dean. He tilted his head as though in puzzlement. “Yes,” he said finally. “Living the good life.”

“Right.” Dean shifted his hand to Castiel’s uninjured arm and began to steer him towards the boat.

“So what happens now? I assume you intend to ransom Sam to the princess. Surely you must know they will not look kindly on you harming him.” Castiel glanced meaningfully at Sam's unconscious form which Donna was settling into the boat. 

“He'll be fine,” Dean assured him again. “Hell, I've been knocked on the head more times than I can count.” He shot a grin in Castiel's direction. “I'm doing fine.”

“Oh of course. That’s very reassuring. You've clearly made sound life choices to bring you here.” The words were harsh but Castiel delivered them with a sly smile and a quirk of his eyebrow. 

Dean laughed, despite himself. “Completely sound.” He guided Castiel onto the boat and prepared to depart. 

* * *

Sam woke blearily. The smell of salty sea air assailed his nostrils and overhead he could hear the high pitched cries of gulls. He groaned as a hot flash of nausea rolled over him and carefully, without moving his aching head, he opened his eyes. He was on a boat gently rocking over the water, the horizon line tipping and tilting with the rolling waves. It was a small craft, wooden, with dusty leaf-strewn cobwebs visible from where he lay in the belly of it. It smelled like old fish. A voice behind him chortled and Sam recognized it as the smooth whiskey gravel of the man who had issued orders from the seat of the wagon back on the road. "Sleeping beauty awakes at last."

Sam scowled and carefully pushed himself up to sitting. He looked around behind him and met the gaze of the speaker. He was of middling height, somewhat portly, but with a dangerous cast to his expression that told Sam he was nobody to be trifled with. He looked canny, wary, and Sam hoped his own expression was neutral when he replied, "Where are you taking me? Where is Cas?"

"Sam," Castiel said and Sam turned to find him sitting on the opposite end of the boat. His uninjured arm was tied to a post with thick, rough rope. He cradled his other arm around his waist and looked unusually pale. There was a tightness around his eyes that betrayed pain, but otherwise he seemed whole. He nodded solemnly at Sam and jerked his chin towards his shoulder, which Sam saw was bound up in what looked like torn shirt material. Blood stained it crimson in places. "I'll be fine," Castiel said to Sam's unanswered question. 

"Won't be using that arm for a while," another voice said just behind Castiel. "But it should heal fully." Castiel and Sam turned to look at the speaker. The swordsman they'd fought on the road grimaced at them both and shrugged in seeming apology. "Name's Dean," he said and when Crowley hissed unhappily he shrugged. "What? He should know our name, _Crowley_ ," he said with emphasis. "It's only polite."

He nodded at Castiel and Castiel nodded in return. Something seemed to pass between them and Sam frowned at them in puzzlement, then turned to look around at the surrounding sea. He wondered how long he'd been out. It must have been a while, for they were well into the sea by now, traveling along the Straits of Gibool. Massive cliffs seemed to sail past topped with mist-dusted evergreen. 

"Where are you taking us?" Sam asked again and this time a merry voice piped up. 

The massively tall woman who'd knocked him out on the road gave Sam an incongruously cheery wave. "Hiya," she said. "Good to see you're up. Name's Donna." She scratched her head guiltily. "Sorry 'bout the blow to your noggin. You were out for a while. Didn't mean to be so rough." She looked unhappy. 

Sam had to tamp down the urge to appease her guilt, so taken aback was he by her open, earnest expression. "I'll...live," he said hesitantly. "Why did you take us from the road? We had nothing to offer."

Crowley laughed. "Nothing to offer?" He repeated incredulously. "Try everything to offer. We know you're on your way to the capital to marry Her Huge Assness Princess Lilith. Who wouldn't snatch that up for a ransom?" He tsked. "Foolish of you to travel without any guards."

Sam's jaw dropped open. The countryside of Florin was so peaceful. It was hard to imagine a criminal element of any sort wandering around its sheep filled hills. He looked at Castiel and shook his head ruefully. "I'm so sorry, Cas. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

Castiel sent him a small smile which did not reach his eyes. "It's not your fault, Sam," he said. He leaned his head back wearily and cradled his forehead against his bound arm. "Just do what they say and it'll be fine."

"That's right," Dean said. "Everything'll be fine." He squinted across the water. "Although..."

"What is it?" Crowley barked sharply, following Dean's gaze. There was a small black dot against the water. 

"Probably nothing." 

But as they traveled onward it became clear that it wasn't "nothing." It was a boat, small with black sails, and clearly built for speed. It chewed through the distance between their crafts. “You think they’re coming after us?” Donna asked, her hand shading her eyes against the glare on the water. 

Crowley grumbled, gripping the edge of the boat and dragging himself upright. “That would be inconceivable,” he muttered to himself as he dug around in the satchel by his side. He made a triumphant noise and ceased his rummaging, pulling out a small worn spyglass. Crowley crossed the boat and peered through it at the approaching ship. “That’s utterly, completely, absolutely, friggin’...inconceivable,” he blustered. 

Sam exchanged glances with Castiel. Though his hands were bound, he wasn’t tied to anything in the boat. He was a strong swimmer, as well. If he could reach that boat, or increase the odds that the strange ship reached him, then he could get help for Castiel. Right now nobody knew where they were but if Sam escaped, maybe they had a chance.

"Go," mouthed Castiel. He looked meaningfully at the water and the approaching boat. Sam hesitated, worried that if he left Castiel then the gentle beekeeper would be killed. But Castiel narrowed his eyes and jerked his head sharply, like a command. He mouthed something that was likely foul and then "Swim!" Sam pushed to his feet and jumped over the side of the boat in one smooth movement.

The water was so cold it took his breath away. Sam kicked desperately upward, wishing that he'd had the time or foresight to remove his boots. His hands were still bound at the wrist and he held them close to his body, trying to decrease the drag through the water. Sam kicked forward as hard as he could, the current boosting him in his escape. Behind him he dimly heard cacophony in the boat that he had just left. Desperately, he blocked them out, concentrating on propelling himself forward as quickly as possible. The other boat began to grow large on the horizon. Hope rose up in Sam’s chest. 

And then something large splashed in the water. Sam was just cognizant of it to shoot a quick glance in that direction as he torpedoed through the water. Nothing marred the surface and distance grew between himself and Crowley’s boat while Dean and Donna scrambled around trying to lower the sail and turn the ship. Sam continued to scissor through the sea. Behind him, something shrieked.

It was the most bloodcurdling sound Sam had ever heard. If his hands had not been bound, he might have paused in his swim to clap his hands to his ears. The shriek rang in his head like a wailing storm and he looked around for the source of it. It was in pausing to tread water and listen that Sam heard Castiel. “Come back,” Castiel yelled to him, his voice high and rough with agony. “Get out of there, Sam!” Sam kicked frantically with his feet to keep his head above the water. He looked back at the boat. Castiel was standing awkwardly now, one arm clearly still bound to the post. His white face peered over the railing and he shouted at Sam like a madman. “Get out!” he yelled, over and over. “Get out!”

Crowley leaned casually over the side railing. “You hear that, Highness?” he called in mocking tones. “Those are the shrieking eels. They nest in these waters this time of year and human flesh is a favored delicacy. They always get louder before they strike.”

There was another shriek, this time to Sam’s other side. He whipped his head around for one more look at the approaching boat. Still too far away. He’d never make it. His heart felt like it was beating outside of his chest and a curious lightness stole over him as he reached his decision. He had to turn back. Sam kicked back towards the kidnappers’ boat, using his powerful legs to scissor through the water as fast as he could. There was another shriek and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. A monstrous black beast rose from the water, all gaping mouth and teeth and black ooze. Its maw unhinged. It was going to swallow him whole.

A strong hand wrapped itself in Sam’s shirt and hauled him out of the water as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes. Below him, the creature shrieked in rage and splashed back under the water. Donna deposited Sam onto the deck where he gasped like a beached fish, curling in pain on the sodden wood. Above him, Crowley cackled and Sam raised his head to glare at him. “That was foolish of you,” Crowley said. “Those leviathan will strip a man of his flesh in the time it takes to eat a pear.” He tapped his lip thoughtfully. “If only there was a way to teach you a lesson.” An evil grin grew across his face. “Oh, I know.” He strode over to Castiel and pulled out his knife, sawing through the rope binding Castiel to the ship. Crowley wound one steel hand around Castiel’s arm and dragged him upwards. There was another angry shriek from the side of the boat and Crowley laughed to hear it. “I should throw your friend over,” he said. “That would teach you--”

“No!” Dean stepped in Crowley’s path, placing his body between Crowley and the side of the boat. 

“What did you say? Boy?” Crowley’s voice held a curl of danger. 

Dean seemed to swell up, his eyes locked on Crowley. “Nobody’s getting thrown overboard. That wasn’t part of our deal.” Behind him, Donna silently stood, forming a solid wall of support behind Dean. 

“Our deal is whatever I say it is,” Crowley spat. “Don’t get above yourself, dog. Or I’ll throw you back in the gutter where I found you.” 

Dean flinched, but stood his ground. “Nobody,” he said softly, “is going overboard. We’re all sticking together.”

The boat was utterly silent for a moment, except for Castiel’s harsh breathing. Crowley’s cruel grip had reopened his wound and fresh, bright red spread along the edges of the bandage. 

“Look,” Donna said loudly, clearly angling for a distraction. “The Cliffs of Insanity. We’re almost there now. We don’t have time for this.”

Crowley’s demeanor changed and he laughed, hurling Castiel to the bottom of the boat. He rubbed his hands together and shot a glare over the water towards the mysterious boat. “Whoever that is may have a fast ship but they’ll never best my giant. Hurry, get us to the dock. I want us ready to head up the cliffs in ten minutes.” He bustled off across the boat to gather up his satchel and spyglass. 

Sam slumped weakly to the floor, adrenaline flooding out of him. He crawled on shaking limbs to Castiel. “Are you okay?” 

Castiel nodded, face pale. “I’m fine, Sam. You?”

“I’m okay. What were those things?”

“Shrieking eels,” Castiel said, his eyes fixed on the floor of the boat. “Leviathans.” He was silent for a few minutes until he took a deep breath and looked up at Sam, as though resurfacing from strong memories. “Nothing good.”

Dean and Donna scrambled around the small craft, gathering what little equipment they had and stripping their baggage into one small carry sack that Donna wore easily looped across her shoulder. Dean, his face set and businesslike after his outburst, quickly fitted Donna with a series of leather slings. Crowley piloted the boat until they slid up against a narrow wooden dock nailed into the side of a sheer cliff with thick iron spikes. Dean scrambled down and tied up the boat and Donna helped Castiel and a still-shaky Sam out of it as it tipped merrily in the waves dashing against the rock wall. 

The purpose of the leather slings quickly became apparent when Dean beckoned Castiel forward. He guided him carefully, with a palm spread against his back, until Castiel settled back in the first of the slings, resting against Donna’s hip. Sam was next. Dean tucked Sam into a sling on Donna’s other hip, hitching the strap tight. He attached Crowley to the third and then clapped Donna on the shoulder. “Head on up,” Dean said and to Sam’s astonishment, Donna rubbed her hands together once, reached for the thick rope suspended from the cliff, and began to climb. Sam risked one glance downward to see Dean, whitefaced, climbing after them. Then he closed his eyes and fought to keep at bay the nausea rising up like a snake from his head injury and harrowing swim.

After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, Donna dragged herself and her cargo over the cliff’s edge. She doubled over, panting with exertion, her passengers strapped to her. Dean clambered onto the clifftop and knelt next to her. “You alright?” Dean asked her worriedly. 

Donna heaved like a bellow but she nodded. “I’m okay. You?” 

Sam craned his head to look at Dean. He was sweaty and pale and had placed himself on the landward side of Donna. Dean met his eye for one long moment, then he nodded shortly and began to unbuckle the trio from the giantess. “Never better.”

As soon as Crowley was free he stalked to the cliff’s edge and looked over. “Inconceivable!” he shouted. “They’re climbing up.” 

Behind Sam, Dean snorted. “I don’t think that means what you think it means,” he muttered under his breath. 

"Donna," Crowley commanded. "Cut the rope. Get rid of that barnacle.”

Sam backed quickly away from the rope as Donna sprang forward, pulling a knife from her belt and sawing at the rope dangling over the cliff. In no time, the frayed end slithered off the side of the cliff, leaving nothing but a dirt cloud behind. 


	3. The Cliffs of INSANITY

Eileen wedged her fingers into the crevices of the rocky cliff face and clung tightly while her body sang with pain. When the rope had slithered its way down the rock face she hadn't fallen, thank all the stars in the sky for that. When she'd felt the unmistakable twang of tension releasing along the rope as first one strand was cut, then another, she'd swung herself to the cliff. With only seconds to act, she couldn't afford to be picky with hand or foot holds and had wedged herself into the nearest possible cracks. While this had saved her life - she was dangling on the cliff instead of battered bone and tissue beneath it - she also felt stuck. Carefully, she surveyed the cliff face around her. It was composed of granite, some pockets still slick from a recent rain or snowfall. There was a handhold half an arm length away. Maybe she could reach it if she swung over. She tensed her arms and tried to weight her body as best as she could on the few toes she'd managed to wedge in the rock. With one great push she lunged for the handhold. Her fingers caught at the rock and latched against the thumb-wide shelf. Her arms trembled.

This was not how she had envisioned this week going. 

Word traveled quickly in criminal circles. She'd learned that almost immediately during her tenure as the Dread Pirate Roberts' prisoner. Sailors ashore tended to congregate in the nearest tavern to the docks. The next half day would be spent in aggressively spreading gossip, which was only exacerbated by the wild fights it tended to spawn. Half the time Eileen suspected that the gossip was wholly made up. Yet sailors took it as fact. Gossip, to sailors, was the ultimate contact sport. Which was why when she'd first learned that the princess of Florin was finally getting married she had rolled her eyes. Rumors of Princess Lilith’s impending marriage to one royal or another had seized the populace’s imagination for years. Whether spread by peasantry or the royal family itself, her marriage was one perennial rumor Eileen felt safe to ignore. Furthermore, the machinations of royalty and the self-importance of royal marriage seemed to be beneath her attention, concerned as she was with staying alive and later, maintaining a hold on her ship full of scoundrels. And then she'd learned the name of Princess Lilith’s fiance.

Eileen first heard it while sitting on a corner stool in a dark and seedy bar close to the wharfs. The bar was situated in a dank stone room, half underground, and smelling like rat piss and stale ale. Eileen had been pretending to nurse a sallow yellow beer while actually reading the lips of the bar’s denizens. When she first saw Sam’s name roll off the lips of a smuggler she had frozen. Surely she’d read his lips wrong, because she could have sworn the hulking pirate had said the name “Sam Singer.” 

Eileen pushed herself up from the bar and approached the man. A direct approach was often best when dealing with the criminal underworld, at least with her reputation. She curled her lip at him, placing one hand delicately on the hilt of her golden sword. “What did you say?” she asked. 

The pirate stuttered, eyes rolling wildly as though wondering what he had done to draw the attention of the famed Dread Pirate Roberts - and how to get out of it. “The-- The princess of Florin. She’s set to marry a commoner.”

“The name,” Eileen prompted, deadly quiet. 

“Sam Singer.”

Eileen hadn’t survived on the high seas for long by losing control of her emotions. She kept her face even, impassive, as she dismissed the pirate with a sneer and stalked away. Inside, her entire body had grown numb. Sam Singer - the love of her life, that golden boy who was the heart of the Singer vineyard - Sam was getting married. And it wasn’t going to be to her. Eileen was careful to stroll casually out of the bar. She walked menacingly down the street, her fingers lightly tapping on the hilt of her sword, a reminder of her ship’s bloody reputation. Eileen walked out to a quiet, rock lined cove, softened by a tiny patch of sand and about a hundred tiny scuttling crabs. It was here, pressed into the cold granite, that she gasped in pain. “Sam,” she disconsolately signed his name close to her heart over and over again. “Sam.”

The sun crawled across the sky and gradually the hand crushing her lungs eased enough for her to think in patterns more coherent than gasping pain. _Well. Sam was getting married to a princess._ She was glad he was moving on. No, that was a lie. She was _angry_ he was moving on. She'd been trapped in a prison of piracy and horror for the past few years now. She’d fought her way through threats, starvation, and servitude. She’d learned to fight, to kill or be killed. Eileen had reshaped herself to survive and now with this news she looked at herself, pressed against rocks on a solitary beach with a nest of predators awaiting her command, and she realized that by surviving she had lost. She had _lost_. 

Eileen had lost herself. Piracy had gobbled her up. She could never compete with a princess. She gasped, a band tight across her chest and she realized with horror that she was on the verge of tears. She hadn’t cried since her capture. Eileen gulped the impulse down, staring just to the left of the blinding sun until she’d reigned in her emotions again. 

Eileen’s lip curled. Sam had found somebody else. Very well. She would go and see him. Her ship sailed near Florin’s castle this time of year. She would sail up the strait, prey on a few ships, and pay a visit to an old lover. 

When she’d arrived, however, she’d learned of Sam’s abduction. She put everything she had into racing to this cliff. Now, clinging to the rocks, she wondered if this would be where their story ended. Her only glimpse of Sam had been a distant one as a giantess hauled him and two others up the massive cliff face.

Eileen grunted in pain and her fingers trembled. 

Fine. The rope had been cut. That was not an insurmountable obstacle. 

Right now, clinging to the cliff, all traces of rage, of hurt and agony left her body, pushed away by grim determination. _I haven’t survived to give up now._ She would find Sam again.

Slowly, Eileen began to climb.

She gathered her strength, pinched the rock and lunged for the next handhold. A pebble dislodged and clattered down the cliffside below. Eileen winced and looked up at the top of the cliff. It seemed impossibly far away. 

A young man peered over the edge, his face very close to the ground as though he had belly crawled to the cliffside. Eileen could just make out his mouth, shadowed as it was by the jutting rocks. "Hello," he said. “Can I give you a hand?"

Eileen scowled at the man. Was he asking her if she needed help? She would swear that was one of the men she'd spied aboard the small craft she'd been chasing. Why would he help her? "If you wouldn't mind," she informed him coldly, "I'm trying to concentrate here."

"Well. Yeah. A rope might help you though, right?"

Eileen laughed. He was a little far away, but his earnest expression seemed genuine. "A rope?" she asked in disbelief. 

"Yeah!" The man stretched out one arm and mimed pulling at a rope, tilting his head up to the sky and speaking where it was useless for her to try to make out any words. He looked down again. "So," he said as though continuing a thought. "That's why I figured I'd help you up."

"And why would I trust you? You did just try to kill me by severing the rope I was just climbing."

The man made a face. "That wasn't me. Wasn’t my idea. I won't kill you until you reach the top. I swear."

"That's very comforting," Eileen said, rolling her eyes. And though her arms and legs trembled at the effort of holding herself on the cliff she said, "But if it's all the same to you I'll take my own fate in hand."

The man held up his hand. "Up to you," he said. "But I promise you." He looked up at the sky again, scratching his neck as though in thought. Then he looked right into her eyes. "I swear on the sword of my father, dead these many years, that you will reach the top alive."

Eileen looked into his eyes. She'd spent enough time on the sea among ruffians and honest folk alike to tell when a man was lying. Killer or not, she was certain he was telling the truth about helping her reach the top alive. She could spend the rest of her energy desperately scrabbling her way up this cliff, the only thing between life and her body dashed against the rocks below how long her fingers would bear out. Or she could trust this man and fight with her reserved energy once she reached the top. "Throw me the rope," she told him gravely. 

The man disappeared and when he reappeared he was talking again, but off to the side where she couldn't make out the words from his rapidly moving lips. A thick rope came tumbling down the cliff and she grabbed it gratefully with one arm, pulling it taut before trusting her weight to it. Slowly, carefully, she climbed the rest of the way up the cliffside.

When she reached the top the swordsman was waiting for her with one leg propped on a boulder several paces from the edge of the cliff. He nodded at her pleasantly, as though he were a farmer passing her on his way to the fields. She drew in a ragged breath, her arms burning, and then reached for her sword. To her surprise he held up his hand yet again. "Please," he said with a charming smile. "Take your time. Regain your strength."

She frowned at his offer and swayed where she stood for a moment. Finally, she took two cautious steps to her left and settled her hip against a crumbling piece of wall. Her legs felt shaky from adrenaline and exhaustion. "Why would you be so generous yet again?"

The man shrugged. "I like a challenge," he said simply. "And I would hate for our fight to be over so soon."

Eileen examined him closely as she flexed her fingers and rubbed her sore muscles. "And you are so confident that you will win?"

"Oh yes. Sword-fighting is..." His hand drifted to his sword and Eileen tensed as he caressed the gorgeously wrought hilt at his hip. "Well, you could say that sword work is my family's legacy." He seemed to hesitate for a moment as though considering his next words. Eileen watched him warily and set her hand to her own hilt when he moved to wrap his palm around his sword. The man withdrew it in one glittering reveal and held it out with both hands as though displaying it to a buyer at a market. "My name is Dean Winchester. My father was a legendary swordsmith. He made this sword. When he died..." Dean shook his head. 

“That is a beautiful sword,” Eileen offered, ready to draw her own sword in defense.

Dean turned the blade in his hands, staring at it as if mesmerized. "He had been commissioned to make this sword by a wealthy man. Count Azazel waited until the day the sword was complete and then he offered to pay my father just a fraction of what it was worth. My father refused and the Count sliced him down and rode away. Since that day I've devoted my life to the sword. I've studied with the great masters in preparation for the day when I face him again and take my revenge. And my one way to find him?" He held up his hand and splayed out his fingers. “He has six fingers on his right hand. I’m so close to finding him now.” Dean’s eyes seemed to light with a kind of grim joy. 

Eileen just stared at him for a moment, taken aback by the long confession. "That's a long life to spend in vengeance," she finally said. Dean shrugged in response and looked down and away. When he looked up again his eyes seemed flat and emotionless as though the remembrance of his father's death had caused him to go through the grief afresh. Eileen pushed herself up from the rock she rested upon. “Perhaps we are much alike,” she said, watching as he turned his sword in his hands. “Fueled by regret and vengeance. Well. Are you prepared, then?"

Dean nodded. "I am." He nimbly passed his sword into his left hand and Eileen cocked her head for a moment. A left handed swordsman. How rare. She switched to her left hand as well, to better meet his parries. She raised her sword in a salute and he grinned mirthlessly at her and did the same. They began to fight. 

She’d seen the man climb up the rope just as she had done. They were surely both exhausted but Dean didn’t show it. He had poise better than a dancer as he wielded his sword across the rocks. She would have stared at him in awe, marveling at his skill and grace, if he weren’t trying to kill her. The man was an artist, but she was something better. She was desperate. 

There was no beauty to Eileen’s attacks or defenses, no graceful turns. She had learned on the ship and at the docks to fight quick and dirty. Dean slashed at her with a bold swipe that would have taken off her head if she hadn’t hurled herself to the ground and rolled away. As she rolled, Eileen grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it as hard as she could into Dean’s face. He cursed, blinked wildly, and Eileen bought herself the time to get back up and continue the fight. 

Their swords flashed like silvered lightning over the crumbling black stone of the clifftop keep. With agonizing effort she slowly boxed him into the corner of a ruined tower. She drove all her weight into her sword, pressing the edge of the blade ever nearer. If she could push just a little bit closer she would be able to pull a knife from her belt and drive it up into his ribs while he focused on her sword. Just a little bit closer…

Sweat beaded Dean’s brow when he suddenly grinned at her mischievously. “I’m overpowering you,” Eileen said through gritted teeth, her instincts tingling in alarm. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because I know something you don’t know,” Dean said. He flashed her a brilliant grin, then give a mighty push of his body, sending her careening backward. He almost casually tossed his sword into his right hand. “I’m not left handed,” he crowed. Before Eileen had time to process this, Dean pressed in on her, his sword faster and more deadly. It was all Eileen could do to keep the blade from running her through. She was getting tired. Her arms felt weighted and somewhere in the corner of her mind buzzed exhaustion so great that she knew if she gave in to it, she would be consumed by it. Dean bashed against her defenses until he had her backed against a crumbling wall. Pieces of it fell away, crashing down to the choppy waters far below. 

Eileen’s arms trembled with effort. Dean was larger and stronger than her. But he was not more cunning. She decided to turn his trick against him. Though her body screamed in pain she grinned widely at him, forcing her face to relax into a carefree expression.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “I’m better than you. Why the happy face?”

Eileen coiled the last vestige of strength into her arms and pushed at his sword as hard as she could. Surprised, Dean staggered back a pace. It was just enough room for her to switch to her dominant hand as well. She offered him a true smile then, relaxing as her rested arm gripped the sword hilt. “I’ve a secret as well. I’m not left handed either.” She steadily beat him back, desperation making her cuts quick and wild. While Dean operated off of textbook maneuvers handed down from masters, she used moves that she had learned in the close confines of rollings ship decks. Eileen kept her blade close, fast, and unpredictable until she finally managed to entangle his sword in her own. With one final tug of her hand, Dean’s blade flew away from him. Gold flashed as the ornate hilt rolled into the dirt and gravel. Without giving him a moment of pause she jabbed the point of her sword into the delicate skin above his adam’s apple. 

Dean swallowed and slowly he raised his hands in defeat, chest heaving at the toll taken from their fight. Shock had taken up residence on his face and Eileen wondered if he had ever lost a swordfight. He had to have been one of the most skilled fighters she had ever encountered. Slowly she stalked to his side, the tip of her blade tracing a thin line along his neck. “I can’t be delayed by you any further. I should kill you for taking Sam from me,” she told him. “But I won’t.” She bared her teeth and raised her arm, coiling her muscles for one final attack. With all the strength left in her arm she struck him in the head with the hilt of her sword. Dean toppled to the ground, insensible. 

Eileen buckled over for a moment, gulping in air and willing herself to cease her shaking. She closed her eyes as she bent over the unconscious man. Then, sword still in hand, she lifted her feet and began to run inland, towards Sam and his captors. 

The ruined keep opened up into a stony grassland, making the path her quarry had taken obvious. Eileen easiliy followed the trampled grass over the crest of the first rolling hill. 

Brown boots peeked out from the shelter of a stand of fire-leafed bushes and Eileen’s heart jumped into her throat. “Sam,” she cried out, hoping to see the boots stir to life. Legs shifted under the tree and Eileen stumbled up to them and peered under the canopy. 

A stranger lay bound to the trunk. His face was pale and a bloodied bandage flapped from his arm as it unraveled. His eyes widened as he took stock of her appearance - the black clothing, head cloth, and mask of the Dread Pirate Roberts. “You,” the stranger breathed. “You’re…”

“There’s no time,” snapped Eileen. “Were you traveling with Sam Singer?”

If anything, his eyes grew wider. The man set his mouth in a defiant line and said nothing in reply. This was answer enough for Eileen. “Do you know where they are taking him?” When he still refused to speak she demanded, “Answer me! If he’s under your protection, I assure you I have the same interest. I’m trying to save him and every minute you wait could mean his death.”

The man’s lips parted and, after flicking his eyes up and down her attire again, finally he spoke. “Crowley is taking Sam into the hills towards Guilder. I don’t know why but I suspect…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. If you are truly out to save him you must hurry. He must not be taken over the border.”

Eileen nodded sharply, the urgency in his tone lighting a fire in her gut to run as fast as she could towards Sam. She stepped back from the foliage and then paused. “You traveled with him?” she asked. 

The stranger wheezed and then nodded.

Eileen pursed her lips. “I can’t take you with me. You’ll slow me down. Do you understand?” The man nodded and she brandished her blade. “But I will set you free.” She slipped under the branches and swiftly cut through the ropes binding the man to the trunk. “There’s another one of Sam’s assailants by the cliffside,” she advised. “Hide yourself well. He may awaken soon. Take care.” And then, sparing him no further glance, she traced the path of her onetime lover through the trampled grass. 

As she ran she turned over what the stranger had said. They were taking Sam, Princess Lilith’s fiance, into Guilder. The countries had a delicate peace between them. If Sam was to be used as a pawn between the two restive nations, there was little reason to expect that he would survive the situation. 

Slowly the grassland gave way to tree cover as she descended in elevation. The path through the low vegetation was still clear as a painted road, though. Eileen followed it into a narrow gap of boulder-bound trees and then froze in place. An enormous woman lounged against a boulder as tall as herself, and smiled at her. 

“Well, hey there,” the giantess who had climbed the cliff said. “Aren’t you a fast one?”

“Seriously?” Eileen cried, frustration rising. She widened her stance and raised her sword, sizing up the huge woman with trepidation. “Where is Sam?” she demanded. 

The giantess crossed her arms casually. “Who wants to know?” she asked.

Eileen chose to say nothing at first, watching as the giantess shifted uncomfortably against the rock. The woman seemed to squirm in her skin and she looked just past Eileen. Color stained her cheeks. She looked uncomfortable. She looked guilty. Eileen had a sudden revelation. “You don’t like doing this, do you?” Eileen asked. 

“Pardon?”

“You don’t like this. Kidnapping Sam.” She took a chance. “Taking him to Guilder. Starting a war.” 

The woman inhaled sharply. “What do you mean, starting a war? How do you know all that? Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Sam,” Eileen said carefully, willing the woman to overlook her pirate mask. 

The giantess looked skeptical, but she also looked desperate. She pushed away from the rock and Eileen took a cautious step back. The woman held out her hands as though in surrender. “Everything about this is wrong,” she said, “and I’ve been suspecting something far bigger than a ransom plot ever since I realized we were headed for the border. If I let you go, will you stop this? Save your friend?”

Eileen nodded grimly. “I will,” she said, hoping that was true. 

That seemed to be enough for the giantess who nodded once and pointed behind her. “You’re gaining on them. If you press on as you have, you should catch them before nightfall. Crowley will be taking the shortest way towards Guilder, around the edges of the fire swamp.”

“Thank you,” Eileen said, clutching her sword and preparing to run once more.

“Wait,” the woman said, waving a hand to stall Eileen. “My friend. The man you fought by the cliff. Is he--?” She gulped, apparently unable to finish the thought. 

Eileen shook her head. “He was alive when I left him.”

The giantess released a great sigh and closed her eyes. “Good,” she said. When she opened her eyes again her gaze burned into Eileen. “When you save your friend I want you to kill that lying snake Crowley. This is all his doing and I would be happier with him gone.”

“I will,” Eileen promised, and she pushed past the giantess and into the wild hills towards Guilder. 

The sun was beginning to set when Eileen found them. Crowley sat next to Sam on a low rock with an absurd picnic spread out on a higher boulder like it was a finely set table. Crowley held a knife to Sam’s throat and a tiny trickle of blood ran from the tip. Sam’s face was bruised, turning from red to purple. 

Crowley smirked at her and said, "Welcome! So you've made it past my swordsman and my giantess, eh? You must think you're doing well."

“That would be the logical conclusion, yes,” Eileen said, her mouth drawn up in a cold smile. 

“Unfortunately, this is where you’ll meet your bitter end.”

Eileen laughed. “Is that so?” She took a step forward and Sam gasped as Crowley’s knife cut into his skin. 

“I suggest you don’t move, or I will be forced to kill him.”

Eileen froze, fighting to keep her expression neutral. Let him think she was just another mercenary with everything to gain and nothing to lose. She focused on Crowley’s mouth and on his cold eyes rather than the blood running down Sam’s throat. Slowly, she smiled cool as an alligator. “I challenge you to a fight, then. A duel to the finish.”

“How gauche. Typical of a lowly pirate,” Crowley spat. “Punching things is all you know, hmm?”

“Very well,” she said, lighting upon an idea. “I challenge you to a game of wits.” She indicated her pocket and when he nodded, Eileen reached inside and pulled out a small wooden vial. “In this container lies a deadly poison. Iocane powder is both tasteless and odorless and will kill you in the span of a breath.” She indicated the goblets laid out on the boulder. “Let us settle this like civilized folk. I suggest a game,” she said. “I’ll disguise the poison in one of these goblets. You determine which cup has the poison and we both drink to our health - or our demise.”

Crowley laughed in delight. “And here I was, afraid you would bore me.” He grinned and gestured to his makeshift table. “Go on. Go on. To our demise!” 

Eileen poured wine into the goblets under his watchful eye before taking the two and shifting to hide them behind her. Her neck prickled as her back was turned. It would be so easy for Crowley to slice her down from here. But his blade never arrived. When she turned, the poison concealed, Crowley still sat with his knife pressed into Sam’s skin. 

Crowley talked his way through the puzzle, growing increasingly wild in his speculation which he capped by jabbing his finger excitedly over her shoulder. “Good god, would you look at that?” he shouted.

Eileen wanted to laugh or roll her eyes but she suppressed both of these urges. Playing along, she turned away from Crowley again and obediently looked over her shoulder. When she turned back around, Crowley wore a smug look like a pleased toad. “Well?” Eileen asked. “Have you chosen?”

“Of course.” Crowley lifted the goblet in front of him and smirked as she did the same. Together, they sipped at their wine and swallowed. The bitter cut of the wine did nothing to dull Eileen’s elation. She had won. 

Crowley began to laugh at her. “You fool,” he sputtered, dropping the knife from Sam. “I switched the glasses! You absolute idio--” His face froze and Crowley keeled over as the toxin swamped his system. When the grasses by his mouth stilled, Eileen sagged where she sat, momentarily numb with relief. Then she scrambled to her feet and flew around the boulder to Sam. 

Eileen’s fingers shook from the after-effects of iocane powder in her system. She had worked systematically for over a year to tolerate the toxin in hopes that she might someday defeat the pirate who’d held her captive. Even after she had taken over for the old pirate she had maintained her immunity boosting routine. This wasn’t the first time it had saved her life and killed another. She could feel the toxin rattling her muscles and her blood felt hot beneath her skin. 

Still, Sam was safe. If that wasn’t a balm to the fire boiling in her veins then she didn’t know what was. Sam was safe. She would return him to Bobby. And maybe...just maybe...

Eileen reached for him, fingers itching to stroke his beautiful face. His soft hair feathered out from the dirty blindfold wrapped around his eyes and nose and his jaw was set in a grim line that she longed to sooth. She drew her hand back. She couldn’t afford to think of him as hers. She couldn’t think about touching him. He wasn’t hers anymore. He was betrothed to a princess now and his future was laid out bright and straight before him. Her only goal would be to return him to Bobby safely. 

“What happened? Is he dead?” Sam asked her. 

“Yes,” Eileen answered and Sam stiffened as she spoke.

“Will you untie me?” 

Eileen’s heart broke a little at the questioning note in his voice. She wanted to kiss that uncertainty away. Carefully she worked her fingers under his blindfold, sliding them up past his cheeks and and into his hair as the fabric slid back. He blinked into the sudden light and a breath punched out of her. Sam’s eyes were just as beautiful as she'd remembered.

With great effort she kept her mouth impassive beneath the mask. She bent her head, pulling out her small belt knife and sawing through the ropes that bound him. 

“Thank you,” Sam said, immediately moving to massage his raw wrists. He rotated his hands then rolled his shoulders and pushed warily upright, eyes on her the entire time. 

They considered each other for a long still time, the wind scraping the bare hillside the only thing passing between them. “So,” he said finally. “Now that you have me, what do you intend to do with me?”

“Do with you?” Eileen repeated, astonished at the question. Suddenly the numb fog of relief that had overwhelmed her lifted and she remembered what Sam must see when he looked at her. She scolded herself. She must be careful. A ruthless pirate must be all he ever sees. “I don’t intend to do anything with you, other than return you to your home. Come.” When Sam didn’t move she brandished her knife at him. “Come,” she repeated her command. “I won’t hurt you. Not as long as you give me no trouble.”

At last Sam stood, wary eyes on her blade. She jerked it towards a ridge which would eventually lead them back to the heart of Florin.

They started off together through the tangled mountain grasses on the long way back to the capital. 

* * *

“Crowley turned out to be a bit of a stooge,” Metatron said, sounding disappointed. 

“Have you read the story?” Chuck asked in disbelief. “Watched the movie? That’s his character.”

Metatron snorted. “Well, you certainly seem to be fine deviating in other ways. I’m just saying,” he said, lifting his slender shoulders in a shrug. “Seems a bit OOC.”

“You’re OOC,” Chuck said, shooting a dark look at Metatron. “Can I keep reading?”

Metatron pursed his lips but ultimately nodded. “We’re finally getting to the good part. You think I want you to quit now?” 

* * *

Sam walked down a narrow game trail which meandered down the hillside, acutely aware of the woman behind him. She wore a sword at her hip and kept a blade at his back. She didn’t speak. Prickles of fear ran along the back of his neck and shoulders and he felt a little bit like he was floating in an unreal nightmare. He had been rescued from one deadly foe only to find himself in the custody of a worse one. For here he was hiking through the foothills of Florin with the Dread Pirate Roberts at his back.

Sam had at first been hopeful to hear the woman who had defeated Crowley. There had been something warm and familiar about her voice that comforted him. But from the moment Sam’s blindfold was removed Sam had recognized the famed pirate from wanted posters in the capital. Scourge of the seas, she was rumored to be ruthless and bloodthirsty. Entire ships had been lost under her blade and cannon. And now, for some reason, she had chosen to travel inland and capture him for herself. Sam seethed with resentment at being a pawn in some incomprehensible deadly game. He stared down the ridgetop towards the glittering sea, and tried to plot an escape. 

Unfortunately, Sam’s attention was fractured enough so that when his boot struck an upraised root he stumbled, nearly falling down the steep slope. A strong, small hand caught him on his way down, yanking him towards the gradual slope on the other side of the game trail they were following.

“Are you alright?” the pirate asked, drawing around to look at him. 

Sam glared at her and refused to answer. Instead he said, “I know who you are.” He watched with satisfaction as her eyes grew large under her mask. Good. He’d rattled her. “You’re the Dread Pirate Roberts. Admit it.” 

The woman’s mouth dropped open for a moment and then she nodded slowly. “I am.” She traced a short mockery of a curtsy, eyes never leaving his face and her mouth twisted to the side as she said, “Here to serve you.”

Sam leaned forward, so the space between them grew small and intimate. “Is that so? Here’s what you can do for me. You can slice yourself to ribbons or drown yourself in the ocean. You can die. That would be of great service.”

Her mouth drew into a thin line and she leaned away. “Is that so? What a thing to say. Whatever have I done to you, other than save your life from a trio of thugs?” Her gaze shifted from him, caught by something over his shoulder. 

Sam turned, curious, and saw a train of four horses galloping towards them. The royal purple livery of Florin stood out against the dull winter landscape. Sam gathered his wits about him quickly. A distraction! This was his one chance to break free from the pirate. 

Rescue approached and soon he and Castiel - if he was still alive - would be safe at the palace and far from this extended nightmare. “What have you done to me?” Sam lunged for the pirate. “You killed my love. So you can die too for all I care,” he growled into her shocked face as he pushed her down the harrowingly steep slope.

She toppled, mouth open in a surprised O. And then she was tumbling down the jagged rocks, a blur of black against the green. “As you wish,” she shouted once, her call echoing up the slope. And then there was nothing but the horrible sound of a body thudding against the rocky soil. Sam stared in horror at the falling woman, the words thudding into his chest like a blade. “As you wish,” he whispered. “But how could you.” Sam swayed where he stood and then he closed his eyes and remembered. 

Eileen talking with him on the porch under the stars. Eileen laughing. Her smile. Her lips. Her eyes. “Oh my god,” Sam said with the horrible feeling that he was cracking apart all over again. “Eileen. My sweet Eileen. What have I done?”

The distant horses were drawing near enough to echo hoofbeats across the slopes. Sam panicked. If he waited here, the princess would reclaim him. He could go home and see Bobby again, then become prince and later, a king. Or he could race after the love of his life, who might be tumbling towards her death at this very moment. Sam turned away from the approaching horses and hurled himself down the cliff, chasing love. 

Sam lost his footing almost immediately on the dry slippery grasses and before he knew it, he was falling as well. The ground and sky blurred into a fog of dirt and pain which only ended when he reached the bottom. He’d been falling so fast that he tumbled halfway across the little clearing at the base of the treacherous hill, landing at last with his face planted on a thorny tuft of mountain buffelgrass. 

Sam scrambled upright, pressing his hands into the sun baked earth, looking around frantically. The world seemed to pause as he turned his head and he cried out as he saw her. She was sitting up, disheveled but alive. Blood and dirt streaked her cheeks and her hair fell in a riot along her face. Her beautiful, familiar face. Sam felt his mouth falter and tears sprang to his eyes. “Eileen,” he choked out. She stared at him with wide, wild eyes as though she was the one looking at a ghost. “Eileen,” he said again and this time it came out as more of a desperate moan of agony and joy. He lifted trembling hands and then signed, “It’s you.”

It was that movement that unfroze her. She half crawled her way across the ground to him. “Sam, are you alright?” She hesitated a few feet away from him and when Sam didn’t move, she lifted one hand and pressed it slowly to his cheek. Carefully she caressed him, her thumb brushing along his skin. 

Sam felt himself crack apart under her touch. “I thought you were dead,” he gasped, his throat tight. 

Tears spilled over onto her cheeks and she shook her head, lips trembling too much to even attempt speech. Sam gulped and drew her into his arms, pressing her tightly into his shoulder as though if he let up for even one second she might disappear again. Eileen fit against his shoulder as though she’d never left his side. Sam lost track of time, kneeling there in the grass holding his love once again. At last, Eileen stirred in his arms and pushed away. 

Eileen’s face was tear streaked but her expression calmer and she gave him a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry,” she said, her hands timidly shaping the words. 

“No,” Sam shook his head and clenched his fists. This moment felt so delicate, as though the wrong thing would send her away. “I’m sorry. I thought you were dead. I...I gave up.” The words tasted bitter on his lips. “If I had looked or...or…”

“Sweet Sam,” she said, her eyes soft in the graying dusk. “I was captured by pirates. What would you have done?” Eileen didn’t wait for an answer. She threw herself towards him and pressed her lips against his. 

Sam gasped under the warmth of her mouth. It was like a dream, kissing her again. He wound his hands in her hair as his lips chased hers. Together they tasted like dirt and blood but that only made it feel truly real. He kissed Eileen in the cooling evening until a high, clear voice echoed down the slope.

“Sam! Sam Singer.” Sam jerked away from Eileen to stare up the hill. Four horses stood silhouetted against the sky.

“It’s the princess,” Sam gasped. “She’s found me.” He looked at Eileen desperately. “I’m sorry,” he said again, mind scrambling to grasp the magnitude of trouble they were plunged in. He was stumbling over himself, hands clumsy and shaking. Sam looked at her desperately hoping she had an answer, because at the bottom of this ravine there were only two ways out. One led to the top of the hill and the other would take them straight through the fire swamp. 

Eileen glanced at the princess, her eyes narrowed, and then looked at Sam. She looked calculating. “Would you come with me?”

“I would follow you anywhere,” Sam said earnestly. “Anywhere as long as I know you are safe.”

Eileen nodded sharply. “Good.” She stood up and grasped Sam’s hand, pulling him to stand as well. “We’ll escape together.” She pointed behind them, into the gloom of the swamp. 

“Sam! Step away from her,” Lilith’s voice cut sharply between them. 

“What? The fire swamp? We’ll never survive.”

Eileen grinned then and it took Sam’s breath away. “Nonsense,” she said. “You’re only saying that because nobody has.” She extended one palm. “Are you with me?” she asked him carefully, staring into his eyes. 

“I’m with you,” Sam said, his heart overflowing with love so strong he thought he might die from it.

Eileen took his hand and together they fled into the snarling deep of the fire swamp, the sound of hoofbeats thundering at their backs.


	4. Into the Fire Swamp

Castiel frowned at his companion over the low fire and turned over the events of the last two days. It had been difficult at first to get a read on his and Sam’s captors. In many ways they’d seemed like an inefficient team. Crowley issued orders that were followed to the letter by the other two, but often punctuated with dramatic eye rolls behind the man’s back. While Crowley had clearly been in charge, Dean and Donna had seemed to be a tighter unit, both more amicable with each other as well as with their prisoners. He’d surmised eventually that the giant and swordsman had been hired by Crowley. Hired fighters could always be hired away, which gave him hope that they could get out of this mess easily. His plans to slowly work a wedge between Crowley and his thugs had quickly gone awry, however. 

After they had reached the top of the cliff and cut away the rope that trailed down to the boat, Crowley had ordered everyone but Dean to march inland. “To Guilder!” he’d cackled, brandishing his long knife in Sam’s general direction. Sam stumbled forward at the head of the group while Donna had wrapped a hand around Castiel’s uninjured arm and practically carried him along. Castiel, for his part, had begun to see spots floating up in his vision like swelling black jellyfish. It was due to these spots that he’d missed the first rock in the path. He’d struck his foot on the sharp stone and fallen hard. Distantly he’d heard Crowley’s sharp inquiry into what had happened and Donna’s low assurances. He pulled himself up and resumed the cruel pace Crowley set. The next obstacle to fell Castiel was a tree root snaking out the ground. This had set Crowley into a lather of fury and he’d ordered Donna to either kill him or tie him to a tree and leave him.

Donna, with something like shame in her eyes, had opted to tie him to the base of a tree on the side of the trail. She’d pulled a battered flask from her voluminous pockets and set it on his lap. Reaching into another pocket, she’d presented a chunk of stale bread. Castiel had nodded cautious thanks for both gifts and had consumed both of them before their retreating figures entirely disappeared from view. 

When the woman in black arrived to cut him free, he was already feeling greatly improved. As she sprinted off into the distance after Sam he rubbed his wrists gratefully. “There,” he told himself. “All you needed was something to drink and a little food.” Then he would begin the long walk back to civilization and hope to stumble across help before too long.

He set out on wobbly legs along the path that led into the hills when he heard crashing footsteps behind him. Castiel had tried to dodge into cover until the threat could be assessed but his ankle spun on loose stones and the trail rose up and attacked him for the third time that afternoon. That was how Dean had found him - with his hands and knees planted in the dirt, spots swimming in front of his eyes, gasping from the desperate pain of wrenching open his wound yet again. 

* * *

Metatron snickered. “What?” he said defensively. “I just like it when Ass-tiel gets hurt.”

* * * 

“Castiel?” Dean said. “Are you okay? Where are the others? Did the woman in black attack you?”

A hand grabbed Castiel roughly by the shoulder and he flinched, shifting his weight so he could hold up one hand. What he wouldn’t give for a weapon. “I’m fine,” he said, pleased to find his voice hadn’t entirely given out. “And she is long gone, apparently chasing after Sam and your...friends.” He twisted his neck up so he could glare at Dean. 

Dean flushed under his scrutiny. “How long ago was it? You think maybe I--”

Castiel gestured broadly up the trail. “By all means catch up.”

Dean shifted in the gravel as though preparing to rise and continue his pell mell run up the path. And then he stopped and settled back into a crouch next to Castiel. “You look like shit,” he said.

Castiel laughed. “Yes, well.” He didn’t have a good answer that wasn’t more than a bitter list of wrongs perpetrated on himself. He settled back on his heels. “Arm hurts,” he said, plucking at the wrapped shoulder and shooting a challenging look at Dean.

Dean slowly reached his hand towards Castiel’s sleeve. He glanced into Castiel’s eyes and seemed to beg permission so Castiel nodded solemnly at him. Dean lifted the bandage, wet with fresh blood, and winced. “Okay. Come on.” He stood up and proffered his hand.

“What?” 

Dean shook his hand out again. “Come on.” He rolled his eyes as though Castiel were simply being obtuse. “Look, it’s almost sunset. You’re bleeding again and if I leave you out here you’ll probably end up as breakfast for a pack of wolves. So come on, take my hand, and let me get you warm.”

* * *

“I have several ideas for how Dean could keep Castiel warm.”

“Metatron,” Chuck said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please.”

Metatron cackled in reply. “What? Everyone’s thinking it.”

* * *

Castiel reluctantly took Dean’s hand and allowed himself to be led to the shelter of a ruined tower several yards from the cliff’s edge. He sat in semi-shocked silence as Dean bustled around him, replacing his bandage with clean linen and making a fire. He drew off his leather jerkin and gave it to Castiel to wear looking embarrassed when Castiel had run wondering fingers over the garment, still warm from Dean’s body. Dean had disappeared for a long time with Donna’s flask, returning with water, a shirt flap full of late fall berries, and news of Donna. “I met her on the path and told her to go help Sam,” he said simply and then collapsed gracefully to sit next to Castiel by the fire. 

Castiel stared at him with his mouth agape. Dean crossed his legs before him, popped a few berries from his shirt into his mouth, and dumped the rest of them in front of Castiel. “Eat up,” he said cheerfully, berries staining his teeth. He did a double take at Castiel’s expression. “What? Do I have something in my teeth?”

“No,” Castiel said instinctively, then flushed. “Actually, yes you do. Right there.” Castiel hovered a finger several inches away from Dean’s fruit flecked mouth. Dean frowned, swiped a hand across his cheek and scrubbed a finger over his teeth, then submitted his face for approval. “Good. You, ah… You got it.”

“Good.” Dean waggled his fingers at the pile of berries. “Eat.”

Castiel stared at Dean. “I don’t understand,” he said finally. “About Donna. She is going to try to rescue Sam and then you’re going to…”

Dean shrugged, leaning forward over the fire to fussily nudge one of the logs into a better position. “I dunno. Bring him back to his home, I guess.” Castiel laughed bitterly and Dean glanced over at him. 

Dean’s face was an open book. He looked distraught and ashamed, his mouth pulling down at the corners and an unhappy crease in his forehead. “I thought you’d be happy to hear that.”

“Happy?” Castiel rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “I’m injured. Sam is gone. All due to the actions of you and your friends. You can’t just...undo that on a whim.” He knew he should feel gratitude or elation. Apparently Donna and Dean had defected after all. But worry that it was too late gnawed at him. They were awfully close to the Guilder border now.

Dean hung his head. “You’re right. And don’t blame Donna, okay? She...she got into this because of me. This is all my fault.”

He looked so hangdog that Castiel, despite himself, felt his icy fury start to melt. He edged closer to the fire and closer to Dean, then began to eat the berries. His stomach growled and he closed his eyes in bliss at the first taste of the tangy fruit. “So how did you come to work for Crowley?” Castiel asked once he’d eaten most of the berries. 

“It’s a long story.” Dean stared into the fire and the orange flames painted his skin a deep golden bronze. He reached up a hand to scratch through his hair and then left it there, white knuckled fingers clutching the short hairs. 

Castiel looked around. “It’s a long night,” he offered. “And I do think you owe me some sort of explanation.” 

Dean launched into a story about the death of his father and a revenge plot that stretched over twenty years. “And then I met this guy Crowley in a bar in the thieves’ forest. He told me he knew where to find the six fingered man and that he’d tell me if me and my friend Donna did one job for him first. I didn’t think I could pass it up. I thought for sure I could weasel it out of him before it ever got this far.” 

“But he never said,” Castiel mused. “And you kept going.”

“Like a fool,” Dean said.

“Like an absolute fool,” Castiel confirmed. When Dean turned his sad expression to Castiel he laughed at him. “Oh, come now. You were swindled as easily as a babe at a market. This Crowley may not have ever had any intention of telling you, or he may not have even known.”

“I know. _I know._ It’s just...I’ve spent all of my life on this. I had to try. For my father.” He sighed. They watched the fire flicker through the wood, the only sound the crackling flames and crickets’ whir outside the shattered tower. Dean put another branch on the fire and settled back with a deep sigh. “You know what the worst thing is? I’ve spent all my life on this quest and it might come to nothing. The six fingered man might be long gone or dead already.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hummed in agreement. “He does sound like the sort who would have made a long list of enemies by now.”

Dean’s only response was disconsolate grunt. Finally he said, “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been spending my life on the wrong thing.”

“What? You wish you had been a swordsmith, like your father?” Castiel grinned. “Or a beekeeper?”

Dean mouth quirked into a brief smile. “Well, that’s one path. But...no. I think about family a lot. I had a brother. Or I have a brother? He was just a baby when our father was killed. Some people took him away and said he was going to an orphanage while I was passed along with the business. I ran away as soon as I could. I...I tried to find Sam. But I found out he’d never arrived at the orphanage.”

“Your brother’s name was Sam?” Castiel wrinkled his nose.

“No relation to our would-be prince, I’m sure. Anyway, I was too young to get anybody to help me and by the time I was old enough to be a threat the trail was long cold. Just like it’s been for Azazel.” He glanced at Castiel. “So that’s me in a nutshell. Failure. Regret. Colossally bad timing.”

Castiel tilted his head and watched his kidnapper carefully. Dean looked sorrowful and the unhappy lines creasing his face spelled defeat. “That’s awful,” he said finally. “To have lost so much.”

“That’s life,” Dean said.

It was Castiel’s turn to sigh. “That is very true,” he said. “I am a good example of that as well, I suppose.”

“I will get you home safely, I promise you.”

“Oh. You will.” Castiel glared at Dean but allowed a little slip of a smile to edge through. The more he spoke with Dean, the more he felt inclined to forgive the man. “But my kidnapping wasn’t what I was referring to. Despite how you may look at your terrible deeds, I can assure you that this experience is not even close to the worst thing to happen to me. Perhaps you can take some comfort from that?” 

“That sounds like some pretty backward comfort.” Dean drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins, laying his cheek along his knees so that he could watch Castiel. He looked curious and Castiel - possibly from temporary madness due to blood loss - began to talk about his past for the first time in years. 

“When I was a young man I left home to join the royal Navy. It was the perfect place for me. Tidy. Organized. Thrilling at times. My captain at the time was a fierce warrior. She’d led her ship into battle more times than anybody quite recalled. I worshipped her, in a way. And then one day we attacked a pirate ship off the coast of Zambool. It was…” Castiel sighed. “There were families on that ship. Children. Naomi knew it but she ordered us to board. Ordered us to show no mercy. It was a slaughter and I… I refused. I stopped fighting and tried to protect a little girl by hiding her in a crate in the hold. I thought if I could just save one--” Castiel gulped past the lump forming in his throat. “But Captain Naomi found out. She ordered me to kill her and when I didn’t, she did it herself. I was hauled on deck and stripped of my rank. Of...everything. In front of my men. In front of everyone. She ordered me brought to shore for punishment. There’s a cage...”

“Agony Cove?” Dean breathed out, his eyes wide. “I’ve heard of it.”

Castiel nodded. “Their torture yard. There’s a nest of shrieking eels nearby and a cage suspended over the water. I spent four nights in that cage with no room to move. No food and water only from the dew and rain. The eels. Those leviathans… Naomi cut my hand and tied it to the bars. They came at first blood.”

“Castiel, I-- That’s terrible.” 

“I went a little mad,” Castiel admitted. “The loss of my position. The shame of it all. Those eels turning the water black and stripping my flesh away with every pass. It was the most dreadful experience of my life. I turned my back on the Navy and on every piece of my old life. Bought a piece of land and started my hives. Bees were easier, you understand.

“Back on the boat when I’d realized I sent Sam into waters of one of the leviathan nests? I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if he’d died. Those still appear in my dreams, only they break through the bars. So you see,” he concluded. “I’ve been broken for quite some time already. If this experience has added anything to my ruin, it’s been inconsequential.” 

Castiel shivered again and Dean carefully sat up and extended his arm, eyes questioning. Castiel looked at him solemnly for a few breaths and then gave a slight nod. Dean wrapped his arm carefully around Castiel, hand winding under his wounded arm to hold him close. “You’re not broken, Cas. And you ain’t ruined. Trust me on that. There’s too much...light in you.”

Castiel let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He stared at the low fire, conscious of Dean’s arm around him. Carefully and by inches, Castiel leaned into him.

Dean relaxed in return. His head dipped towards Castiel, his stubble brushing along Castiel cheek. “I’ll get you back safely, okay? And I’ll save Sam. I’ll make this right. I swear.” The fire crackled at their feet and Dean was warm at Castiel’s back. Dean’s breath whispered down Castiel’s collar bone, warming him to the core. “I swear.”

* * *

The fire swamp sprawled along the border of Guilder and Florin. Nobody knew quite where the border lay within the swamp since the few who had attempted to survey it never emerged again. Even on the edges of the swamp marker trees shifted in the boggy ground. It was an uncertain place and it accepted travelers like a hungry beast waiting with its mouth open. 

Sam and Eileen fled into the swamp, drumming hoofbeats at their backs. Eileen kept her sword raised and eyes sharp. She had just regained Sam - possibly for good if the way he kissed her said anything about his feelings. She wasn’t about to lose him to mere wet turf and wild animals. She held his hand and guided him through the tangle of brush and twisted tree limbs that cluttered what looked like an old game trail. They ducked under vines and clambered over jutting stumps. The ground bubbled in places like the soil was a liquid brew simmering over a stove. Steam rose in small clouds throughout the forest and hung suspended like hovering ghosts. In the distance fires flared and disappeared like meteors escaping the earth. Eileen had faced black storms and boat swallowing waves. She’d once rescued a man in waters that teemed with sharks and manta death turtles. But nothing had prepared her to plunge into this haunted wood. Sam clutched her hand tightly as though afraid that if he let go, they might lose each other again. She felt much the same and gratefully laced his fingers in hers. 

Dusk has already started to fall when they were approaching the swamp and once under the trees, darkness came quickly. Eileen led them through the tangled forest, searching until she spotted a small alcove formed by upthrust stone and a sprawling swamp oak that grew as wide as four men. She pulled Sam into the little half circle refuge. 

Moonlight shone down in a column of light through the tree canopy and Eileen turned to Sam and pressed her finger to her lips. She wanted it quiet so Sam could hear whether their pursuers approached. “Hear anyone?”

Sam shook his head and signed, “Rest for the night?”

“Yes,” Eileen replied, hands flying between them. “Too dark to keep moving. It’s been a long day.” She rolled her eyes and rubbed her sore arms. Sam grimaced in agreement. He took her hand and pulled her down to sit beside him. They settled with their backs against the rocks. 

Exhaustion made Eileen feel dizzy and hunger thrummed in her gut. They’d found water to drink but the swamp was rife with unfamiliar plants. She didn’t want to survive this long, only to die from a mushroom. She patted Sam’s knee and then signed, “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this.” 

Sam ducked his chin to smile at her. His chest moved in and out in a deep sigh. “I know.” They were silent for a while. Sam had his head cocked to the side, staring thoughtfully into the dark forest behind them. 

“What do you hear?”

“Nothing,” Sam signed. “Insects, a few animals, but I don’t hear the princess or her guards. No people.”

Eileen relaxed at this. “Good.” She settled her sword between her knees. “We need to talk.” She pointed at herself in question and Sam nodded. Eileen let out a rattling breath. “I’ll go first then.” She sat still for a moment, marshalling her thoughts. “You need to know what happened. Why I--” Her fingers shook and she willed them to be steady. “Why I never came back.”

Sam nodded solemnly at her and sat quietly, waiting for her to speak. “As you might know, my ship was attacked not a day out of the harbor.” Sam nodded encouragingly. “The crew had a good wind. They tried to outrun the ship. When they caught us, the pirates hauled everyone up on deck. They started killing us one by one and when the Dread Pirate Roberts got to me, I begged for my life. He asked me why he should spare me and I said… I simply said please, I need to live. When he asked why, I told him about you. I said I loved the best man I ever knew and that...he loved me in return.” She was grateful for the gray moonlight now, hoping it hid her blush. A wide smile spread across Sam’s face and he reached out his hand and stroked her gently along her cheekbone, combing his fingers into her hair. Eileen leaned into his touch shamelessly, drinking it in as though it were a steadying draught. “To this day I’m not sure why he spared my life. Mine wasn’t the first sorrowful plea and it wasn’t the last. But he took me on as a cabin servant, of sorts. I learned to fight, to sail, to read people. And about a year after that he offered me the ship. Said he wanted to retire and I was the right build, with the right passion for survival. It was either that or die so...I did.”

Sam sighed, his fingers still tangled in her hair. He pulled his hand away to say, “You went through a lot. It must have been hard.” Eileen shrugged uncomfortably and he continued. “Why didn’t you come home once you were free?”

Eileen frowned. She’d been dreading this question. “I didn’t think I could. Sam, you don’t understand. I killed...innocent people. I raided ships. I became a criminal. How could I ever come back from that?” Her hands trembled. “Why would you want me?”

Sam’s hands flew to frame her face and he drew her in for a fierce kiss. Eileen let herself be consumed by it. She sank into Sam’s lips desperately. Sam’s hair had grown since she’d been gone and Eileen tangled her own fingers into his locks, keeping him close. She felt like fire had been kindled within her for the first time since she’d been captured. Sparks popped under her skin and she lost herself in the delicate onslaught of his probing mouth. When they finally pulled apart they were both gasping for air. Sam had a beatific smile on his face when he said, “I will always want you. Please. Please never doubt that.” Eileen caught his hands and lifted them to her lips, kissing them gently.

He pulled his hands free and she froze, thinking she had presumed too much. Instead he shook his head apologetically. “I need to apologize to you.”

“Sam, what could you possible need to apologize for? I’m the one who left you. I’m the one who didn’t come back.”

“If you left me,” Sam signed, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Then I did the same to you.” He looked down as though ashamed to look into her eyes. “I gave up the faith that you might still live. I set out to marry another.” 

“You wouldn’t have a choice,” Eileen said, longing to wipe the sorrow from Sam’s expression. “She’s the princess. How could you resist that?”

“By insisting I was engaged to another. By believing you weren’t dead. I gave up. I gave in.”

“Sam.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Sam balled his hand into a fist and pressed it to his mouth. Eileen took it and with soft strokes, gently uncurled his fingers. She laced her hand in his and pulled his arm down and around so that he held her in a loose embrace. 

“So we’re a couple of dumbasses?” she asked and felt the puff of breath from his laughter. Eileen pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him and laying her cheek to his chest where she could feel his breath drawing in and out like the tide. They settled against the stone wall, warm in each others’ embrace until dawn arrived at last. 

* * *

Sam woke to a bird whistling a merry carol somewhere among the trees. It seemed incongruous to the dank swamp but as he blearily opened his eyes he had to admit that the forest was almost beautiful. Or maybe he just felt that way because Eileen turned towards him with a wide grin. “Morning sleepy,” she said quietly and leaned forward a few inches to place a gentle kiss on his nose. Sam crinkled his nose and smiled, lifting his thumb to her chin to guide her lips to his. The fire swamp was positively glorious. Eileen’s lips were warm, and soft, and perfect.

Eileen pulled away far too quickly. “We should get moving,” she signed, her frown reflecting her chagrin. Reluctantly Sam nodded and they both eased up from the forest floor. Together, they walked back into the heart of the swamp and continued their slog across to the other side.

Sam discovered the flame spouts quite by accident. Sounds like whip cracks had echoed through the swamp since they’d first set foot in it. The cracking grew louder the deeper into the swamp they plunged. 

For the first time, there was a sharp thundercrack right in front of Sam. He flinched at the loud noise and then just a second later, fire shot up in front of him and the cuffs of his pants burst into flame. Sam gasped and released Eileen’s hand so he could drop to the ground and roll to put out the fire. 

Black charred his pants but as he inspected his shins he was relieved to see no damage. Sam looked up at Eileen. Her eyes were narrow in calculation, looking around the swamp carefully. Now that the jet of flame had disappeared, there was nothing on the ground to indicate its presence. The soil was dark and sandy where they walked and any singe marks were hidden. “I heard it before it flamed,” he told her and her eyes lit with interest.

“Interesting! Okay. Listening for those is your job.” Sam saluted, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow, and accepted her proffered hand to stand up. 

They made their way carefully from that point on, Sam steering them both when the alarm call sounded before a flame spout. He’d just begun to feel that the fire swamp might not be so bad after all when the world slipped away under his feet. 

It was like falling through a waterfall. In mere seconds Sam was enveloped in cool sand that moved like water along his skin. He sealed his mouth, desperately wishing he’d had time to draw a breath. _If this is water,_ he thought, _maybe I can swim through it_. His hands sliced through the hydric sand in the direction he thought might be up but he either wasn’t moving, or he’d fallen farther than he thought in a short time. His chest began to tighten and burn and his movements became more desperate. If he could just find anything - a root, a rock, a hunk of solid earth. But his hands and feet brushed against nothing but flowing sand, which gave way around him and provided no purchase. In the frantic final moments as the need for breath became critical, he spared a moment for one final thought. _At least I held her one last time._

Hands landed onto his shoulders. Fingers curled around his chest, under his arms. They dug into him and Sam stopped struggling, feeling blindly for Eileen. She wrapped his arms around her. He could feel, in the absolute darkness of the pit, that they were moving. Sand flowed past his skin and over his closed eyes. And then, suddenly, there was air. 

Sam gasped as his head broke through to the surface. He could feel Eileen pushing him and gasping, blinded by sand, he rolled where she sent him. His searching arms found sand which gave way and then, finally, solid ground. Sam dug his fingers into the sandy earth. Now that he’d found the edge he could feel the rocky ledge beneath that supported the solid land and surrounded the pit of watery sand he’d tumbled into. 

He crawled up, shaking from oxygen deprivation and shock, and rolled onto the ground. There he lay, gasping and blinking desperately at the sand that had sifted past his lashes and into his eyes. “Eileen?” he called out, desperate to hear her voice and then he realized how foolish that was. He struggled up onto one elbow and managed to open one stinging eye. Eileen was lying on the other side of the pit, coughing desperately as well. Sam pushed himself onto his hands and knees and crawled carefully around the perfectly smooth sand that camouflage the pit, feeling for firm ground as he went. He fell over her, wrapping his hands around her and pressing his face into her neck. She pulled him in close and held him for a long time. 

At last Sam pulled away, mouth still soiled by grit. “We’ll never survive,” he signed looking in anguish on her still-pale face. 

Her expression immediately went from worried to stern. “You and I can surmount anything,” she said. She pulled herself up to a sitting position. “Look. We know how to identify the fire spouts. You’ve discovered the sand pits.” She pointed at the one beside them. “Which can clearly be spotted by its smooth, unbroken sand. So now we know what to watch for.”

“And what about the Squirrels of Unusual Size?” Sam asked. 

Eileen shrugged quickly, looking away from him. “I don’t think they exist.” She pulled herself to stand and strapped her discarded sword belt back around her hips. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” She started off down the scraggly path again, her back a hard line in the gloom. 

Sam scrambled to his feet and followed after her. They’d been holding each others’ hand through the swamp but now Eileen walked with one hand brandishing her sword and the other wrapped around her middle, fingers pulling taut ripples into her shirt. Sam watched her stalk ahead of him for a few minutes before reaching out and snagging her elbow. She froze, looking to him immediately. “Where?” she asked sharply.

Sam shook his head and pulled her arm so she spun all the way around to face him. “No fire,” Sam told her. “What’s on your mind?” A crease appeared in Eileen’s brow and she began to turn around again. Sam gripped her more tightly. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “And don’t say nothing.” He glanced down at her hand still wound in her shirt. “Are you hurt?”

Eileen sighed and then shook her head. She sheathed her sword. “I’m not hurt. Can we just get out of here?”

“I don’t buy that for a--”

“I’m trying to get you out of this god forsaken death swamp,” she burst out, hands cutting the air with sharp punctuation. “It’s my fault you’re here and I just need you to be safe.”

“Hey. Okay. I’ll be fine.” Sam tried to lay a comforting hand on her cheek but she stepped back, an impassive mask dropping over her face. Sam watched her warily. “Please talk to me.”

Eileen shook her head and for the barest second her lip trembled. She stood in the half light of the swamp. Its gold-green light illuminated the sorrow painted across her features and Sam ached to see it. He wanted to touch her, kiss her. But he waited, sensing that if he made the wrong move she might pull away for good.

Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “If I hadn’t left to travel back home. Or if I had only come back once I was free to do so… You almost died back there and you will die if I don’t get you out of here.”

Sam tried to convey everything he was feeling through his expression. "Beloved Eileen. None of this is your fault. You were taken prisoner and then--”

"I didn't think..." Eileen hesitated. "I didn't think I could come back from it."

"I know," Sam said. "I know. But you're here now. And you can come back from it because - you know what? - I’m here too. And this is my fault too. You think I would have been kidnapped if I hadn’t--?" He stopped speaking aloud, watching her focus on his hands flying in front of them. "We'll get through this. You and me."

Eileen nodded slowly, still looking miserable. “We should go.”

A dark blur was all Sam registered before Eileen was gone. Sam shouted in shock as an enormous squirrel toppled Eileen to the ground. Before he could process it all, Eileen was under the snarling beast whose tail flicked over her like a malevolent cloud. She struggled o push it away, her sword knocked out of her hand, and Sam aimed a kick at the squirrel. 

Pain jolted up his leg. The animal was large and solidly built but it moved just enough off of Eileen for her to grab her sword and slice it up and along one of its hind legs. The squirrel clicked angrily, tail lashing as it jumped away. It hunkered down before them in the clearing and Eileen rolled gracefully to her feet, sword trained on the animal.

Sam at last got a good look at the creature. It was the size of a small pony with long cruel claws and teeth that extended past its lips. Blood marred one side of its mouth and as they watched it passed a tongue over the blood. The beast swayed on its hind legs and the tail batted the air. A low growl filled the clearing. Sam looked around quickly, wrenching a sand blasted stick from the ground, and stepped beside Eileen. The creature hissed low. With only the ripple of muscle in its hindquarters to warn them, the squirrel attacked, leaping towards them across the clearing. Eileen slashed towards it, silver blade driving under the beast. The creature bounded away from her, a fresh cut on its side. As it leapt, its tail swished through the air and knocked into Sam. 

The animal was surprisingly strong and Sam fell to the ground with a jarring thud. The squirrel fell upon him, wide ravening mouth opening to taste his throat. Sam tried to work his stick up between them, hoping to wedge it off. Its teeth grew closer and closer. Saliva dripped from its hot mouth onto Sam’s cheek.

Suddenly the creature backed up and Sam scrambled up to see Eileen with both hands on the tail, pulling it away. The squirrel flipped backwards, claws outflung, and knocked her backward. Her sword skittered into a clump of thick bracken and the beast snapped its mouth open and struck swift as a snake, digging its teeth into her shoulder. 

Eileen howled in pain and Sam scrambled to help her. He hit the squirrel squarely in the middle of its body, knocking it sideways once again. Eileen rolled to the side, grabbed her sword from where it shone in the ferns, and brought it back up just in time for the squirrel to drive itself onto the blade in its ravening haste to attack. The squirrel died in paroxysms on her blade, collapsing down onto Eileen.

“Eileen!” Sam yellowed fruitlessly, driven to terror at the blood welling from her wounded shoulder. He grabbed the squirrel’s tail and pulled as hard as he could until the body slid away. Eileen lay on the ground and gasped while blood pooled in the tear of her shirt. Sam swore and rushed to her. He fumbled for the ties on his shirt and pulled it off. It was dirty from travel and Sam prayed he wasn’t killing her by pressing it to her wound. Still, he bound it as best as he could, hands shaking. She stayed his hands when he was finished and pressed them to her trembling lips. Carefully she stood.

“We need to get out of here,” she said with a deadly glint in her eye. 

Sam nodded. There were things they needed to talk about, but that could wait until they’d escaped the perils of the swamp. He took her hand with a pointed look, and followed her to safety. 

* * *

They stumbled from the swamp, hand in hand, Eileen’s drying blood flaking from their fingers. 

"We did it," Sam said jubilantly as they ran out onto cracked, firm soil giving way to a low meadow. "We made it out." Eileen’s eyes were alight with joy as she looked up at him, relief returning color to her face. Sam’s hand drifted to her cheek and slowly, she smiled and leaned into his palm.

Suddenly her head jerked up, eyes wide in alarm. She stepped back from Sam and raised her sword. Sam swiveled around and an aristocratic horse stepped delicately from the brush which had concealed it. Astride the horse was the princess. 

Princess Lilith was dressed in meticulously maintained hunting garb. An embroidered leather jerkin was visible under chain mail so fine that it twinkled the diamond in the midday sun. She wore a fine sword at her hip and her palm rested comfortably on it. “Sam,” she said in a melodious voice. “At last you have emerged. I was terribly worried.”

"Princess," Sam said carefully as three other riders emerged from hiding. 

The princess ignored his hail, looking instead towards Eileen. “Are you challenging my claim, pirate?” she asked lightly. 

“You will not take him,” Eileen snarled. 

“He belongs to me, girl.” 

“Death first!” Eileen raised her sword and began to move forward as though she was considering leaping onto the horse and dragging the princess down to her level. Sam watched the showdown with sick horror, events slowing around him. He looked behind the princess. An archer sat cooly astride, drawing a notched arrow back to his shoulder. It was aimed straight at Eileen’s heart.

Sam leaped between Eileen and the princess’ guard. “Don’t hurt her,” he shouted to them. He moved forward and turned enough so Eileen could watch his mouth and hands. “Don’t hurt her,” he repeated. Eileen stared at him in puzzlement. Sam didn’t dare look back at the princess. He had to make sure that Eileen knew what bargain he was making. “Let her go. Let her live. And I will go with you,” he promised as his stomach turned to lead. “Please.”

A deep silence fell across the clearing. Eileen’s face turned from battle-red to sickly pale and her lips moved soundlessly. Behind them the princess laughed. “A bargain well struck,” she said. “Stow your weapons.” 

Sam spared a glance behind him. The archer and other guard dropped their weapons down. “Do I have your word, Highness?” he asked.

She clapped her hands in merriment. “Your pirate’s life will be spared. Say goodbye and we’ll go. I grow tired of this forest.”

Sam turned back to Eileen, his heart breaking. “Please,” he begged her. “I can’t bear to see you die. It almost killed me last time. I couldn’t bear it again. Please. Go. Be safe.” She shook her head slowly, eyes wide with pain. Tears swam in her eyes. “Please. My love. Please.”

Eileen dropped her sword to the ground. 

Sam longed to kiss her or comfort her. This would likely be the last time he would ever see her. He desperately tried to commit her face to memory this time. He wanted to create an image so strong that she would be all he would see when his eyes were closed. There was too much to say, and no time to say it.

“Come along, Sam,” the princess said. “Or our deal is off.”

Sam backed away from Eileen. His last look at her was to see her sway like a sapling in the wind as she watched him ride away.

* * *

“Very tragic,” Metatron said approvingly. He slurped at a mug of peppermint cocoa. “Very nice. Did you know despair is one of my favorite narrative arcs? It’s the opposite of hope, you see. You crush them, and then you build them back up.” He kissed his fingers in homage. “It’s beautiful. Why do you think I love this movie? We gain so much, only to lose it all again.” He sighed happily. “Mmmm, despair…”

* * *

Eileen had never felt more despair in her life than she felt as Sam rode away from her astride the princess’ horse. The three guards lingered in the clearing and Eileen watched them warily. The archer took up his bow once more and held it up, an arrow notched but relaxed in his fingers. After a few minutes allowing Sam and the princess to gallop out of earshot her instincts were confirmed. One of the guards rode forward. He appeared to be a pompous thing, dressed in plum velvet accented by little golden tassels along his collar. He wore an ornate gold sword at his hip. He tapped his fingers along it, drawing her attention. She stared at the hand for a moment, counted the six fingers, and then looked up at him. “You’ll be letting me go now?” she asked sardonically. 

The guard smirked. “Come, don’t play the fool.” 

Eileen wanted to wipe that smirk from his face. His horse pranced close to her shoulder and she craned her head to see his face as she said, “Six fingers on your right hand? I know someone who is looking for you, Count Azazel.” 

His face twisted in shock at the name and she had a moment of pleasure before he lifted his sword and brought it down against her temple. The forest dissolved into black.


	5. Storming the castle

Three weeks passed and Sam felt hollow inside. He’d hoped, foolishly, that Eileen would find him at the castle once she was free but she never came.

He was a marked man, his betrothal to the princess giving him unwelcome renown if he did try to escape. But Sam knew he would flee into the deepest cover, if only she would be by his side. He had written a letter to Bobby as soon as he had arrived at the castle, imploring him to come. Bobby either couldn’t get away to join him or the letter never made it through to him. Sam gripped the stone windowsill in his bedchamber, the rough stone catching on the nap of his fingers painfully. Now that he was back at the castle he felt like a bird in a gilded cage, desperately beating against the bars while onlookers remarked blandly on his beauty. 

The princess had given Sam two days to recover from his “terrible ordeal” before an army of servants descended on him, cleaning him and dressing him in fine, weighty clothing. The princess had brought him out to the terrace which overlooked the main courtyard and described his harrowing kidnapping in flowery terms while Sam stood at her elbow and smiled tightly. He was acutely aware of the guards who dogged his every step through the castle. Everyone had a blade and every blade pointed at him.

Now weeks later, Sam did nothing but wait while the princess bustled through the halls of the palace. She was moving up their wedding. No longer would it take place at the Christmas ball. Instead, they would be wed on the first of December. “So that the whole country knows that I cannot wait,” she told him, tracing a line from his ear to his lips. “So they know how much I adore you.”

The palace in early winter was cold and Sam, watching people live out their lives from his high courtyard room, felt utterly alone. The wedding loomed less than one week away. He could see now way out of it.

Behind him, his door latch snicked quietly. Sam tensed. The princess or her attendant were frequent visitors to his chamber, running wedding details by him as though he were a thrilled participant, rather than a virtual prisoner. He took a steadying breath and turned around. 

Sam stumbled backward, back against the window and wishing desperately for a weapon. A cloaked figure stood in the room, shrouded from head to toe in a monk’s robe. The figure reached up to push back the hood and Sam choked back a cry of relief and joy and flew forward. “Castiel,” he whispered, drawing the other man into a firm embrace. “How did you get in here?”

“Sam.” Castiel returned his embrace. “The guard on duty right now is a friend of mine from the Westhill training fields. She let me in. Sam,” Castiel grunted. “My shoulder--”

Sam stepped back immediately. “I’m so sorry, Cas. Are you hurt? Are you--?”

“I’m alright,” Castiel said hurriedly. “It’s still a little sore. That’s all.”

Sam frowned at him, remembering the bloodied bandages. He didn’t know anything about sword wounds. Was three weeks really enough time to recover? “How did you get back? I was worried about you. I thought you were dead. Nobody had any news of you.” Sam ushered him to the low couch in front of the fire and Castiel sank down into it with a deep sigh. 

“So you never did get any of Bobby’s letters.”

“Bobby wrote to me?” Relief swamped Sam. “I’ve sent them out but--”

“Yes, they do seem to be erecting quite a few isolating barriers.” Castiel frowned at him. “We need to get you out of here. I’ve been doing some inquiring into our kidnappers’ contacts since I arrived at the city. Thanks to Dean’s leads I--”

“Wait. Dean. As in our kidnapper Dean?”

A strange look passed over Castiel. “He helped me after Crowley left me behind.” Castiel gestured to his shoulder. “He bound my wounds. Helped me return to my home.”

Sam sat back, blinking in surprise. “I can’t say I saw that coming.”

“Nor did I. Dean is…” Castiel tilted his head, considering. “Unusual. I believe he had a crisis of conscience. I was able to...take advantage of that.”

“But he kidnapped us. Can you really trust him to tell you the truth? What if he informs the princess about--?”

Castiel winced. “I believe we can trust him, Sam. His arrangement with Crowley… There was more to it than money. I do believe there is a good person at his heart.”

Sam tilted his head towards Castiel, considering him. “That’s considerably more information than I was expecting.” Castiel shrugged, looking embarrassed. “So what did you find out?”

“Crowley had been seen meeting with Princess Lilith’s advisor in various taverns throughout the city. While the rumor had initially indicated some sort of assignation, Dean and I now suspect that Crowley was working for Lilith in some capacity.” He leaned forward, eyes sorrowful as he said, “Sam. I believe the princess orchestrated your kidnapping.”

Sam stared into the fire, turning over the past year in his mind. “You know, I always wondered why she picked me,” he said at last. “She could have anyone in the kingdom yet she picks a nobody from a small farm? It never made sense to me. It that’s true, I really am just a pawn. A game piece on a board. And you? Getting hurt? It’s all because of me.”

“Sam,” Castiel said, shifting so that he could take Sam’s hand in his. He patted it soothingly. “We will get you out of this. None of this is your fault.”

Exhaustion swamped Sam and he slumped, rubbing at his eyes with his other hand. He squeezed Castiel’s hand once in appreciation, then threaded his fingers together tightly. He stared at the skin pulling white at the knuckles. “Eileen found me up in the hills,” he said. “She saved me from Crowley.”

“Eileen?” Castiel gasped. “But how? When? I thought she was dead.”

Sam stared at the fire and recounted his rescue, Eileen’s secret life as the Dread Pirate Roberts, and their ordeal in the fire swamp. “I made a deal with Lilith,” he admitted, worry rising like bile to choke him. “Eileen could live if I married the princess. I’m not sure I can leave without that coming back on Eileen,” he finished on a whisper. “I want to ask about her. Reach her in some way. But I’m scared to draw any more attention to her. I’ve begun to sense that the palace’s reach is wide. Her ship is strong but even a pirate--” He laughed bitterly. “To tell you the truth, I thought she would have come for me by now.”

Castiel settled back against the couch and buried his hands in the sleeves of his monk’s robe. “She loved you, Sam. If she came for you after all that time, she’ll do so again. You must give her a chance.”

“What chance she has is fading,” Sam said with a frown. “In a week I’ll be married and I can find no way out of this mess.” He turned to Castiel with excitement. “Unless you can get me out? Now?”

Down the hallway a door clanged loudly and Sam jumped up. “Someone’s coming,” he hissed. “Quick. You must hide.”

Castiel nodded, springing up and heading for a long tapestry that hung over the bed. Sam returned to the window, desperately trying to steady his nerves. He hoped his face would not betray that anything was amiss.

The door to his chamber opened. Lilith entered, her smile particularly wide and predatory. “My dulcet darling,” she cooed, opening her arms to him. Sam bowed, pleased to let the formality distance them. 

“Your highness,” he said. “What brings you to my chambers?”

Her laugh tinkled like shattering ice. “Oh, why would I need inducement to pay a visit? Though as it happens, I do have some news.” She clapped her hands imperiously and movement appeared at the door behind her. Two guards walked in with Bobby between them. 

Bobby smiled grimly at Sam, moving around the princess to embrace him. Sam felt like he had been hit by a stone wall and he wrapped his arms around Bobby reflexively. “Father, it’s good to see you,” Sam said. But not like this. Not with Lilith looming predatorily behind them. 

“I missed you too, boy,” Bobby said gruffly, clapping him on the back. He drew back, hands moving to grasp Sam’s shoulders. His expression was grave when he said in falsely joyful tones, “Princess Lilith has invited me to stay until the wedding. Isn’t that awfully gracious of her?”

“So gracious,” Sam said, pasting on a smile. He exchanged pleasantries between Bobby and Lilith for a few minutes, commenting inanely on her polite inquiries into the farm. All the while his mind reeled. Although their conversation remained perfectly polite, Sam was terribly conscious that Bobby’s presence here was to insure Sam’s cooperation. “Where will you be staying while you’re here?” Sam asked, picturing the dungeon. He looked towards the guards. “Perhaps I’ll walk there with you?” 

Lilith raised a cool eyebrow and then with a quick command, instructed them all to decamp and head for Bobby’s new room. Sam followed and worried. The trap was closing in. 

When he returned to his room Castiel was gone. All that was left was a note scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked between his blanket and pillow which read: 

I’LL FIND HER

Sam clenched the note in his fist, and hoped. 

* * *

Eileen woke in a cold, dark dank place. Blearily she tried to raise her arm to rub at her eyes, trying to see if the dim tableau was due to her head injury or as a consequence of being imprisoned somewhere far from the light. She hissed as she tried to raise her arm and found that it was bound to the table on which she lay. 

Eileen wriggled in her bonds, finding the combined effects of her head injury, the terrible throbbing pain in her shoulder, and the after effects of iocane powder made her logy. She felt slow and strange. 

Somewhere just within her peripheral vision, a sliver of light appeared. It disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and Eileen would have discounted it in another situation. Still, she was bound to a table, held prisoner. She knew what would happen now. She steeled herself for her prison guard to be revealed. 

When she presented herself Eileen started in surprise. She was a small woman, her blond wavy hair twisted up sensibly in a knot on her head. She looked at Eileen with almost clinical interest. “Awake now?” the woman said in a melodious murmur. 

“Where am I?” Eileen asked and the woman tutted.

“I'm Meg,” she said in response. “I've been looking after your wounds. They're really looking quite a bit better.” She reached for something above Eileen's head then drew down a bowl. She set the bowl on the table and reached for a cloth within. “Essence of pig snout,” she said, dabbing carefully at Eileen's throbbing shoulder. “Sounds disgusting, I know,” she said, her eyes widening at Eileen's grimace. “But it'll fix you up in no time. Then you'll be ready for the machine.”

“Then it is to be torture,” Eileen guessed. She winced as the woman dabbed her stinging shoulder. "Very well. I can handle torture. But why heal me?" she asked finally, feeling half gagged with her hands tied down. 

“Azazel likes 'em whole, unbroken,” Meg replied. “Better for the experiment.” She grinned an oddly chipper grin, patted her on the cheek, and busied herself at the end of the table. 

The sliver of light appeared again and a few minutes later a sallow-cheeked man stalked up to it. A twisted grin lit his face as he looked at her. There was a cold light in his eyes that made Eileen want to run as fast and far as she possibly could. She felt bare beneath his gaze and sickeningly vulnerable. “My name is Azazel,” he greeted her with a cordial smile. “And I am a scientist.”

* * *

Dean rolled his forehead on the table. The table was wet - with beer or water or something worse, Dean didn’t want to know. Liquor burned in his veins, turning his brain into a pleasant buzz and his limbs to weak noodles. He should get up and find a place to bunk down in the thieves’ forest. He should, but he found he was unable to move. _Left arm. Right arm. Left leg. Right leg._ Walking was easy with a little planning. He groaned. Next to him a stool was pulled out from the bar. Its legs screamed along the floor and Dean flinched at the noise and mumbled, “Go ‘way.”

“When I said I owed you a life debt,” a familiar voice said, “I didn’t imagine looking after you would be quite so much work.”

“Donna,” Dean moaned, lifting his head. Her smiling face swam in and out of focus. He leaned back to get a better look. _She’s so tall_ , he thought with astonishment. Or was he short? Oh wait, he was sitting down. The next thing he knew he was lying flat on his back, his legs splayed around the bar stool. He swore a litany and grabbed at the hand she offered him, trying to pull himself up. He frowned. “My legs don’t work, Donna.” He giggled. “My arms don’t work either.” He laughed hard. “I don’t work, Donna.”

“Deano,” she said with a deep sigh. “What in the heck happened to ya?” She slipped an arm under his and hauled him upright easily, propping him against her shoulder. “Come on, let’s burn some of this outta your system and then we gotta talk.”

Dean giggled again and rested his cheek on Donna’s shoulder. “‘M fine,” he slurred. “Just a little, uh. Just a little…”

“Drunk. Yeah, I got that.” Donna dragged him outside where the chill winter air felt like a slap. 

Dean flinched. “Aw hey.” But he followed along as best as he was able, until he reached the tidy boarding house on the edge of the forest. She dragged him inside and deposited him unceremoniously on the floor. Then she stumped from the room. Dean laid his cheek gratefully on the wood floor. The lit room was warm with a bright crackling fire in one corner. He let his eyes drift shut.

Dean’s eyes flew open a moment (or several) later when a rush of cold water enveloped him. He sputtered, lashes fluttering just enough so he could focus on the bucket set on the floor in front of him. Donna had him by the neck and shoulders. The bucket loomed again. He screwed his eyes shut against the cold water and coughed as Donna pulled him up. The next time she tried to dunk him into the water, Dean managed to steer his limbs well enough to block his head from dipping into the bucket. “Donna,” he gasped, shock making him shake. “What the hell?”

Donna pulled him back and set him down on the floor, his legs arranged loosely like a rag doll. He glared at her as she walked around him and settled on the floor near the bucket, crossing her legs neatly. She grinned at him. “Had to wake you up somehow.”

“Not appreciated,” Dean snarled, swiping water from his eyes with trembling fingers. When he finally calmed enough to focus on her, he sat and glared at her.

“I’m not sorry even one bit,” she said. “We’ve gotta talk.”

Dean sighed. “I know. I just… I needed one quick drink.” Donna raised her eyebrow at him. “Okay, okay. A few.”

Donna pursed her lips. “He’s dead. The lead’s gone. You’ve got to move on.”

Dean pushed a hand through his wet hair. Donna had returned from her search for Sam bearing news of Crowley’s demise and no sign of Sam or the woman in black. She had escorted Dean and Castiel to the nearest town and left to see to her own affairs while Dean helped Castiel heal from his injuries for a few days. Afterwards, Dean had taken Castiel back to his home and then left for the capital to try to retrace Crowley’s movements in the city. He’d picked up the trail of his old hunt for Azazel with a new feeling of exhaustion and despair. “Yeah, well, what if I don’t want to move on from it.” He dropped his head to his palms. “I just… I just turn everything good in my life to shit.” To his horror he could feel tears pricking his eyes and he screwed them shut and ground his hands into them. 

Donna tsked. “Well, I never thought I’d see the day when Dean Winchester quit tryin’. Doesn’t look good on you.” 

He shot a red-eyed glare at her. “Yeah, well, I’ll give you five reasons why I got more booze in me than anything.” He started to tick them off of his fingers. “One. You were right. Crowley had some kind of shady deal with the princess. Two. You were right again. It was supposed to be an assassination. I’m not a friggin’ contract killer, Donna! I’m not. Three. I can’t find anyone who’ll talk to me about Azazel or a six fingered man. Four. Everybody seems to know, even if they aren’t tellin.”

“What’s five?” Donna asked. 

Dean scowled. “None of your damn business.”

“How’s Castiel?”

“I said none of your damn business.” Dean carefully got his feet under him and, with only a slight wobble, stood up. 

“Did you know Sam’s back at the castle?”

“I wish the married couple the best.”

“Dean.” Donna frowned at him. “He’s as good as locked up. I’ve been asking around.”

Dean goggled at her. “You’ve been asking around, huh? Well, that’s very incognito, Donna. I’m sure they’ll overlook the giantess who’s been running around asking about the prince-to-be.” He shook his head. “I keep telling you that you’ve gotta look after yourself.”

“Looking after other people is how I look after myself,” she said shortly. “And after what we did… After Castiel.”

Dean kicked at the water bucket so that it sloshed onto the floor. He stared down at his distorted reflection in the puddle. “You think I don’t know how much I owe? I looked into it already. There’s no way into the castle. It’s too well guarded even for us.”

Donna’s shoulders slumped. “But there’s got to be a way in. That boy doesn’t deserve that snake and you know it.”

Dean spread his hands out. “Well, you got ideas? I’m listening.” He waited for a beat. “No? Fine. Then just forget it, okay?”

There was a knock on the door and Dean fumbled at his waist, grateful that his reputation in the forest meant nobody had tried to rob him of his sword while he was dead drunk. Donna opened the door, fist poised to flatten whomever waited outside. Dean glimpsed a shock of dark hair and he stumbled forward, clumsily trying to re-sheathe his sword. It proved impossible though, and instead he laid it carefully on the small table and rushed forward. “Cas,” he said. “You’re here.” 

Castiel nodded at Donna, who drew him into a careful hug. “How’s the arm doing, friend?” Donna asked.

“Better,” Castiel replied, rubbing at his elbow absently. “Aches but it seems to be healing cleanly now.” He looked past Donna towards Dean, taking in his wet hair, the bucket, and likely the stale stench of alcohol with which Dean felt he must be redolent. Dean tried to toss him a nonchalant smile and Castiel quickly looked down and away. “I’m not here to catch up. I need your help. Both of you, I hope.” A frown pinched his features. 

“Of course, Cas,” Dean breathed. 

“Sam is trapped in the palace. The woman in black is nowhere to be found.” He quickly explained her true identity as Eileen, and her connection to Sam. “My contacts at the castle inform me that nobody fitting her description is in the dungeon, though guards did bring somebody through the forest a few weeks ago. I sent word around the dockyards and while the ship’s crew is carousing, the Dread Pirate Roberts is nowhere to be found. She’s either dead or missing.” He drew his shoulders back. “Or imprisoned somewhere near this forest. I need your help to find her and she and I can save Sam together. I’m sure of it.”

“We’ll help you,” Dean said quickly. “Anything,” he said, desperate to have Castiel look at him with approval again. “I’ll help you with anything.”

* * *

To Castiel’s relief, Dean sobered up quickly. He’d begged some time to clean himself up, his ears turning bright red as he fumbled with his wet shirt. Castiel had hastily averted his eyes the moment Dean began to raise his shirt and suggested meeting them at an inn on the main street for food and planning. Seeing Dean again caused a twinge in his chest that had nothing to do with his injuries. It had been a strange and introspective few weeks. 

That first night in the ruined keep had been spent staying warm in each others’ arms, a strangely intimate position for somebody who had been an enemy just days before. Castiel should have kept his distance. Instead, he found himself trusting the man. He understood him, in a way. How vengeance and a skewed sense of duty had blinded him to doing what was right. Castiel had been foolishly blind to wrongdoing in the past and he would never stop paying for it. 

They had spent two nights in an inn, paid for by everything Dean had, save his father’s sword. Dean had given the innkeeper the few coins that rattled in his purse and a heavy necklace he’d worn around his neck. Castiel had washed himself and rebandaged his wound, then rested like a slumbering babe under Dean’s watchful eye. Dean had opened up in that time like they were living on their own private island far away from life’s concerns. With his father’s sword stashed in a corner of the room Dean blossomed into somebody breathtaking, full of joy and curiosity. For Castiel, it had been like staring at the sun and forever after seeing it when he shut his eyes.

Castiel reached the tavern and slumped at the bar, lifting one finger for a beer. He closed his eyes. 

Dean had escorted him back to his home in the inland hills, looking around his small cabin with delight. He’d looked like he belonged and Castiel had found himself showing Dean the little things. His slumbering hives, his books. The sparse remnants of his naval career. That night Castiel had gone to him as he slept on Castiel’s floor. He’d kissed Dean. 

Castiel traced the tip of one finger along his lower lip. He’d done more than kiss.

And then the next morning Dean left with just a quiet farewell, disappearing into the misty dawn with his father’s sword strapped to his hip. At the time Castiel had told himself that it was only right that he leave. Dean was a criminal, a kidnapper. What had happened between them was pure madness. 

_If that’s the case, why can’t I stop thinking about him?_ Castiel turned this question over and nursed a slow beer as the sun traveled across the sky.

Later that day, Castiel, Dean, and Donna regrouped at the tavern and assembled a plan to try to break into the castle. But after two days of fruitless searching and interrogation both subtle and explicit, Castiel grew frustrated. They were back in Donna’s rented room, pouring over maps of the forest that Donna had borrowed from the church archives. Donna tapped a corner of the map. “This is where Eileen was spotted last,” she said. “I think we should go back here.”

“We’ve been there twice,” Dean grumbled. “There’s nothing there but trees.”

“But there were wheel tracks,” Donna insisted.

Castiel sighed. “Well, we don’t have anything else to go on.” He looked between them, feeling pain pulse in his head. “One last time?”

Dean sighed and nodded. “One last time,” he said for the fifth or sixth time since they began their mission to invade the castle.

Castiel suppressed a smile at that. The man had been almost infuriatingly accommodating ever since Castiel had shown up at Donna’s room. It made him smile to think that Dean was caught up in memories of their brief tryst as well. Castiel led the way from the inn, map rolled up in his fist. 

The trio crossed the forest, traveling to a stand of old trees. Each tree was as wide as several men. Donna walked a little bit ahead of Castiel and Dean, who followed in companionable silence. It was a bright, clear day with wispy clouds standing in for foliage on the bare branches. Dean cleared his throat loudly and Castiel looked at him, curious. Ahead of them, Donna increased the size of her strides so that she began to pull far ahead. _Ah, a pre-arranged signal._ Castiel hid a smile and waited for Dean to speak.

“So what are your plans once we get Sam out of the castle?” Dean asked, looking everywhere but at Castiel.

Castiel pretended to think hard on the question. “Well, assuming I’m not implicated in the rescue, I imagine I’ll go back to my home.”

“Back to the bees?” Castiel glanced over to see Dean grinning at the cracked dirt track.

“Perhaps.” 

“You, ah, ever want a visitor?”

Castiel felt a smile bloom on his face that was impossible to suppress. “I would love a visit, Dean.” He took a deep breath. “And maybe, someday…”

Dean laughed quietly. “Yeah. Maybe someday…” He stopped and pulled up one of Castiel’s hands, running his thumb gently over his knuckles before drawing his hand to his lips. “I’ve spent my life chasing revenge, Cas. It’s most of who I am.”

Castiel looked down. He’d assumed that Dean’s quest to kill the man who had killed his father had been a large part of what had pulled him away. He wondered if he could be with a man as he spent his life on a blood-quest. Castiel himself had walked away from that kind of life and was a better person for it. But not everybody was equipped to walk away, seeing it as a retreat rather than chasing something new and bold. “I know, Dean. I wouldn’t seek to change you.”

Dean snorted. “Well, you should. But, uh, even if you don’t...I do. Seek change.” He wrapped his other hand around Castiel’s fingers and said earnestly, “I’m tired of it, Cas. Just two days with you and I was happier than I ever remember being. I’m not saying there’s enough here. But I want to try life your way for a while. If-- When. When we save Eileen and Sam, I want to start over. Be better.” 

Castiel grinned at him and pulled his hand up so he could capture both of Dean’s. “I think that’s a very good idea.” 

“Yeah?”

“Oh yes.” Castiel loosed his hand and wound his arms around Dean’s narrow waist. He pulled his warm body close. Dean slowly licked his lips and Castiel leaned in, his eyes already hooded in anticipation. 

A scream tore through the wood. Castiel jumped away from Dean and fumbled at his sleeve, pulling out his short silver sword. Dean unsheathed his own sword and they ran to catch up with Donna. She stood still in the wood, one ear cocked to the sky. 

Another scream sounded, this one long and loud and agonizing. 

“It’s her,” gasped Dean. “It’s Eileen.”

They ran through the woods narrowing in on the sound of seemingly endless screaming. They reached a point between five great, old trees where the cry was loudest and looked around frantically. “She must be underground,” Castiel gasped. 

“Yeah, you think?” Dean growled, stalking around the trees desperately. “But how do we find her? There’s nothing here but damn trees!”

The scream stopped as abruptly as it had begun and silence fell onto the clearing. They heard shouting echoing from under the earth and Castiel hissed, “Quick! Hide!” The three of them fled into the trees, Donna rushing further into the woods where the brush was thicker. 

There was a creak and as they watched, a panel opened in one of the wider trees. The princess stormed out from it, yelling over her shoulder, “Meg, you can tell your master that he can accept the loss of his test subject, or he can die! How about that?” She stood outside the tree, the door swinging shut behind her. Then she put her fingers to her mouth and whistled sharply. A horse cantered up from where it had been hidden in the trees. The princess pulled herself up onto it and rode away, a surly look marring her beautiful face. 

Once she was gone, Castiel rushed forward, pushing desperately at the tree trunk. Dean joined him, running his fingers thoughtfully along the bark. “A hidden panel in a tree,” he said in wonder. “Cool.” He ran his hand over the whorls of the trunk and then muttered something triumphant under his breath and pushed. There was a click and the door swung open. 

The trio rushed inside. Castiel blinked, trying to adjust to the dim light. It was a dark, dank room full of lumbering iron and wood machinery. A shelf swirled around the edges, lined with leather-bound books. The machinery seemed all joined together and Castiel traced it to a small space near the bottom of the cave-like room. There was a central platform and strapped onto it was Eileen. Her eyes stared sightlessly back at him and Castiel sagged. “No,” he breathed. “She can’t be--”

“Oh, she’s dead alright,” a cheerful voice said. Castiel directed his blade towards the speaker and saw a short blond woman smirking at them from beyond the table. She stepped out of the shadows. “My, it’s a regular party in here. I should have dressed for the occasion.” 

“Who are you,” Dean demanded. “Where is this? What did you do?”

“So many questions. Let’s see. Meg. Underground, fool. Nothing.”

“You’ve done nothing?” Donna said with scorn. 

“Well, I didn’t kill her. Her Highness stomped right in here and turned it all the way up to eleven.” She indicated a lever on the structure above Eileen. 

“So that’s it, then.” Dean’s voice sounded hollow and Castiel’s heart fell in a selfish spiral. If Dean’s plans to save Sam and Eileen failed, would his plan to turn his life from vengeance also dissolve? It was so easy to fall once one block was taken away. 

“No,” Castiel said grimly. “There might be a way.” He gripped his blade in a throwing stance. “Give us the body.”

Meg snorted. “Well, I don’t want it.”

Castiel waited for no further invitation. He quickly ran down the stairs and unbound Eileen’s body from the machine. Donna picked her up and Castiel directed them across the forest to a steaming spring he knew of where an old witch lived. They waited outside the door while Castiel knocked steadily, desperately. “Miracle Missouri?” he gasped as soon as she opened the door.

She looked at them with a sweet bow of a smile, taking in the three warriors and Eileen’s body. “Well, you just going to be sitting out here all day? Or are you going to come in?”

* * *

“Get me my teapot, Dean. No, not that pot, the other pot.” She rolled her eyes at Dean as he fetched her a small copper teakettle. He quailed under her fierce expression, feeling as though she could see straight into his head. “So you got a dead girl. What do you want? Final secrets? I’ve got a temporary draught that’ll wake her up for ten minutes. It’s just two shillings. Good bargain.”

“We don’t want her temporarily resurrected,” Castiel said earnestly. He held Eileen’s hand as though she were still alive to feel it. “We want her alive for good. Brought back.”

Missouri clucked her tongue. “Oh honey,” she said, looking their motley crew up and down. “Trust me when I say there’s no way you can afford that. And life’s too hard for a witch today for charity what with the royal family wiping out magic users.”

“Please. This woman... You don’t understand,” Castiel said. “Sam, the man the princess is marrying tonight? This is the woman he loves. This is true love we’re talking about here. We’re going to save him and humiliate the princess. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Missouri laughed, pouring water into a cup then stirring a spoonful of ground leaves into it. She raised it to her mouth and took a sip. “I’m too old for pettiness, boy. I don’t care if she’s embarrassed or a snail or what. I’d just like to be left alone. Got me? Now go away.” She leveled a glare at Dean. “I got no time for beggars.”

Dean gaped at her. They were so close to their goal. And as improbable as it seemed that somebody could be resurrected, he had to take a chance that it was possible. “There’s got to be something,” he said. “Some way we can pay.” He stepped towards her and his sword clunked dully against the table. Dean froze. Slowly, his hand drifted to his sword. His father’s sword. He drew it from its sheath. 

“Dean,” Castiel gasped, his eyes wide with alarm. “That isn’t the way to make her--”

“Take it,” Dean said. “It’s gold.” He spun the hilt in his hand so that it faced outward. Missouri looked at him for a long moment and Dean focused only on her face. The only way he could get through would be with a stranger, who didn’t know the true, bloody cost of the sword. He gripped the hilt tightly, if only to still his shaking fingers. Slowly, Missouri reached out and took it.

Once she had his father’s sword in her hand she smiled brightly at the room. “Yes, this will do very nicely. Very nicely indeed. One resurrection draught coming up.” She began to potter around her kitchen while Dean backed up against a table. He crossed his arms, trying to will his heart to be still, and watched the floor as Missouri worked. He could feel Castiel and Donna watching him and he didn’t want to see the look on their faces. Relief? Shock? Pity? Dean didn’t care for any of it. 

Missouri’s preparations went on for an interminable length of time. Finally she cleared her throat. “It’s ready, boy. Since you paid, I figured you’d best be the one to deliver it.” She held out a steaming mug to Dean. He took it carefully and peered inside. The contents resembled a thick mud and smelled like swamp. 

Dean wrinkled his nose. “This is it?”

“Works like a charm every time. She still isn’t dead. Not all the way.” Missouri looked up towards the ceiling. “I can still feel her soul lingering on. That girl’s got unfinished business. Go on. Tip it into her mouth and pour it on down nice and slow. The magic’ll do the rest.”

Dean did as she instructed, carefully pulling her jaw down until her lips and teeth parted. He began to pour the concoction down her throat. The muck oozed into her mouth like sludge, filling the space around her tongue. “Uh. Missouri? It’s not going down.”

“Just wait,” Missouri said in her high, sweet voice. 

Suddenly Eileen jolted on the table. Her mouth gaped wide and her eyes flew open. The potion sucked down into her throat like water whirling down a drain and she jolted up from the table taking a deep rattling breath as she went. Dean jumped back with a shout and Eileen looked around wildly, first at him and then at the others in the room. “I’ll beat you both apart. I’ll take you all together!” She blinked, seeming to recalibrate. Then, in a much quieter voice she said, “Castiel?”

“Eileen.” Castiel rushed to her and pulled her into a tight embrace.

Dean stumbled back, the teacup forgotten in his hand until Missouri gently wrested it from his fingers. His chest filled with emotions so tangled that they were utterly unidentifiable. He felt like he was breaking out of himself and becoming something new and entirely uncharted.

Castiel filled Eileen on what she had missed while she had been held captive, and their plans to infiltrate the castle and save Sam. She carefully swung her legs over the side of the table and dropped onto the ground. Eileen swayed, but her stance was steady. She looked around the room, a light beginning to spark in her eye and a smile growing on her face. “Well, looks like we’ve got a castle to invade,” she said, taking her sword belt from Castiel and buckling it on. “Let’s go.” She took one step and then another, each more confident than the last. 

Castiel grinned at Dean in a smile so infectious that it spread to Dean. A kind of lightness entered his soul, like he’d finally dropped a dark thing that had been riding on his heart for years. He nodded at Castiel, mouth beginning to turn up at the corners, and followed him out of Missouri’s little cabin. 

Missouri grabbed his elbow as he was about to pass through the doorway. She fumbled for his hand, pulled the fingers open, and laid his sword hilt into it. Dean looked at her in astonishment. “This isn’t-- I don’t understand.”

“That was all the payment I needed.” She nodded at the sword. “You’re gonna need that later.” 

“I-- Was that a test?” Dean held up his sword in wonder. 

Missouri patted his shoulder. “It’s whatever you need it to be. Now get out of my hair. Go help that girl save her boy.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I--”

Missouri shot him a stern look and then gave him a gentle push. “Don’t make me regret that, Dean Winchester. Get on with it.” She waved at the troop standing outside her door. “Have fun storming the castle,” she said sweetly before stepping back inside and closing her door with a soft click.

Dean looked at the sword in his hand, then up at his friends. They were all grinning at him, save Eileen, who had an impatient frown. He focused on her, nodding in deference. “Well, you heard the woman. Let’s go.”

* * *

Sam had imagined what his wedding might look like, first as a generality and later with Eileen smiling back at him from under a grape-laden arbor. He’d never imagined that he would be marched under an armed guard to the altar. 

The priest was young with ears that stood out like clam shells on his otherwise thin face. He’d greeted the wedding party in the antechamber with raised eyebrows, a mix of surprise and delight on his face. “Well, I’ve never done a royal ceremony before,” he’d told Sam, enthusiastically pumping his hand. “But I sure am excited. I’ve got a big sermon prepared. About love and fealty and the grandiosity of nature. Did you know that grassland voles mate for life?” Father Garth had taken a cue from Lilith’s glare then, and fled into the heart of the castle’s chapel. Nobility and fine guests lined the pews and muttered behind their hands as Sam trailed the future queen’s path down the aisle. Bobby sat in a front pew flanked by guards. His face was pale, except for a purpling bruise on his cheek. Sam ached to comfort him but he knew the only way to save Bobby was to go through with the wedding. There would be time for words and plans afterward. Lilith might force him to marry her, but she could not force a true marriage. 

“Treasure your love. Like the mated swan, you may swim through the currents of life…” Father Garth’s sermon turned into a dull buzz in Sam’s ear. Suddenly, a loud bang shook the castle, rattling the glass in the wall sconces. The priest’s wandering lecture trailed into nothing and he stood, mouth dropped open, as another loud _boom_ rattled the chapel. 

_Stand your ground!_ The anguished shout from outside brought a thrill of relief to Sam. Had Castiel come through with a rescue? Beside him Lilith snarled and snapped her fingers in front of the priest. “Keep going,” she hissed.

_Run away! Run away!_ The shrieks from outside were unmistakable now. The men and women shifted in their seats, filling the air with a buzz of muffled murmurs and creaking wood. “Perhaps we should postpone the wedding,” Sam suggested, desperately trying not to break into a relieved smile. 

Some of his joy must have shown because Lilith’s expression grew deadly. She whirled on Father Garth. “Well? Get on with it.”

Garth jumped and he snapped his mouth shut. “Right. Sorry. Uh, where was I? Oh yes. As two swans circling, beak to beak, soon to rise in the dawn--”

“No,” Lilith said tightly. “Skip to the end.”

Garth looked uncertainly at Sam. “Do you, Princess Lilith, take--?”

“I do,” Lilith said, hurriedly. 

“And do you, Sam Singer, take her most serene and glorious highness Prin--”

“Of course he does. Say man and wife so we can retreat to a more defensible position.” Lilith glowering at the priest. “Well?”

“Um. Man and wife,” Garth said, glancing nervously between them. “But--”

Lilith was already moving down the aisle. “Bring him,” she called over her shoulder as she strode away and guards seized Sam by the elbows and forced him into a quick march-step behind her. Lilith swept away into the heart of the castle, a phalanx of troops at her side. She left Sam with a bubble of troops moving him relentlessly down the corridor and towards his quarters.

“Bobby!” Sam yelled, but there was no reply. When they reached his chamber Sam was thrust inside, alone, and the door locked behind him with a final clang. “Well, that’s just great,” Sam muttered. He flew to his window and looked down. A gaggle of guards stood underneath his sill, their swords drawn as they looked out into the murky night.

* * *

Breaking into the castle had been laughably easy. Eileen suggested they use the Dread Pirate Roberts’ outsized reputation to bluster their way in. The soldiers had fallen away like leaves from a tree leaving only one quivering captain. The key to the gate had been quickly offered and the trio made their way into the castle with little bloodshed. 

Dean led the charge down the hallway, heading for the chapel. The castle was eerily quiet. Dean supposed rumor spread quickly and whomever wasn’t preparing to take on a spectral pirate was busy finding somewhere safe and hidden to wait out the attack. His heart was racing. He’d been in many fights over the years and the fear was always the same. This time, though, he also had the additional desperate need to redeem himself. Castiel, Donna, and Eileen, three people he had wronged in the past few months, raced along behind him. He had to prove to them - and himself - that he was worthy. 

Dean skidded as he went around the corner. The stone floors were worn smooth and the lighting in the interior corridors was dim, so it took him a moment to notice the person advancing at the end of the hallway. Dean raised the tip of his blade and charged. The man stopped short. Moonlight streamed in from an ancient arrow slit, painting the man in deep plum. He wore rich clothing, Dean noticed as he advanced, and Dean smiled. An aristocrat, by the looks of it, and likely easily dispatched or frightened away. Dean flourished his blade in a way that was far more show than useful. It usually worked to scare off the amateur bladesmen. In response the man grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the light. He lifted his blade and the sword gleamed. “Out of my way, boy,” he said. 

“Never,” Dean growled, advancing slowly. He was drawing closer now, three others at his back, and the other man still wasn’t backing down. Dean looked him over and then froze. His hand. There were six fingers on his right hand. Slowly Dean raised his eyes to the aristocrat. “You,” he breathed. “Count Azazel.” 

The other man looked startled and a little confused. “Do I know you?” he asked as though they were sipping tea together on a ballroom floor. 

Dean forgot to breathe or even speak, so great was his shock to find his quarry here on the very eve that he’d decided to give up his quest. He wanted to shake to pieces. He wanted to charge across the stone with his blade until the man became nothing more than a red smear on the wall. Instead he leveled a strong, direct look on Count Azazel, committing his hated face to memory. “Hello,” he said quietly. “My name is Dean Winchester. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

A smirk curled up on Azazel’s lips but he flicked a glance between Dean and the three people behind him. In an instant he lifted up his blade, turned heel, and ran.

Dean’s body went cold and he whirled around. Words left him and all he could do was stare pleadingly at Castiel.

Castiel’s eyes were wide and he looked shocked, but when Dean looked at him he shouted one word. “Go!” 

That was all Dean needed. He spun around and raced after Count Azazel, panic thundering in his heart. Dean sprinted down the hallway, desperately hoping his hesitation hadn’t lost him Azazel. At the end of the next corridor a door slammed shut and Dean raced up to it. He slammed his hand down on the handle, metal cutting into his palm, and pushed with all his might. The door didn’t move. It was locked. “No,” Dean said in disbelief, sizing up the solid wooden door. “No!” He backed up and threw his shoulder against the door. “No!” He slammed into the door again. And again. “Donna!” Dean yelled at last in desperation. “Donna, I need your help. Please! Please!” He could only hope that Donna was still within earshot, and that there were no other exits from that room. 

To his relief, Donna came running down the hallway. “The door,” Dean shouted, gesturing at it with panic. Donna threw her shoulder into it once. Twice. The door gave way with a resounding crack of splintering wood. On the other end of the room, Azazel whirled around, an expression of shock on his face. Dean gulped air and patted Donna’s arm gratefully. “I owe you everything,” he said. “Everything, friend. Where’s everyone else?”

“Castiel said he heard Bobby so he’s headed off to try and rescue him. Eileen went to go find Sam.”

Dean swore. In one short minute their loose coalition had fractured apart. “Okay. You go help Cas, alright? He’s still hurt. Find Sam and Eileen and get out of here.”

Donna clapped him on the back. “I’ll see you out there.”

Dean gulped down the fear trying to claw its way up from his gut. “I’ll see you.” He shifted his hilt in his sweating hand, gave Donna one last nod, and stepped inside. 

Azazel leaned casually against an ornate plum chair, his sword held comfortably in his hand. He looked relaxed to the unaccustomed eye, but Dean noticed the tension in his arm and the steely glint in his eye. The man was ready to fight and by all accounts, he was an expert. 

“I remember you,” Azazel said with a smirk. “Little snotty thing running around your father’s smithy.” He shuddered delicately. “Such a shoddy workman to have spawned this much effort.” His gaze lit upon Dean’s sword. “That’s it, I suppose?”

“You killed him,” Dean said quietly. “For that, I will kill you. I have made it my life’s mission to--”

Azazel laughed, his voice echoing in the dining hall. “Oh. Oh! How utterly sad. How terribly tragic. You’ve dedicated your entire life to defeating me.” His words emerged like a tiger’s snarl. He grinned. “Boy, you have no idea who you’re up against.” He raised his sword and attacked. 

Dean barely managed to avoid his blade, so quickly did it descend. He lost himself to the whirling fight, advancing and retreating along the floor in the boxed confines of the dining tables. He managed to thinly slice Azazel’s sleeve, drawing a razor’s width of blood from his arm before Azazel whirled on him and pressed him back...back...until he fought with his back against a table. “Poor little boy,” Azazel snarled. “Spent your whole life for this moment and for what? Nothing.” His blade whipped and caught Dean in the side, slicing a hot bolt of pain across his skin. Dean raised his sword to parry and Azazel speared him through the shoulder. Dean cried out as Azazel drove him back, the metal sword cool in his body. Azazel yanked the sword out and a hot rush of agony swamped Dean. 

Dean raised his sword to attack again and Azazel slashed again, skewering him in his other shoulder. A broken sound escaped Dean’s lips and shame engulfed him. After all this time, all this preparation...and Dean wasn’t good enough. He would never be good enough. Azazel whipped his blade as quick as lightning and ran his sword through Dean’s gut, a triumphant smirk on his face. He stepped back and whipped a napkin from a nearby table as Dean fell to his knees, running it along the edge of his bloodied sword. Dean’s body buzzed with shock. 

“So sad,” Azazel crooned. “So...pathetic.”

The room sounded like static in Dean’s ears. He watched Azazel and wondered how it would end. Would Azazel make it quick, as he’d done to his father? Or would it be slow, with Azazel forcing him to watch his own blood congeal on the floor?

“You were never worth a damn,” Azazel said. “And neither was your father.” 

Rage heated Dean, filled him up like a mighty bellow working. He staggered to his feet again. “Hello,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “My name is Dean Winchester. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Azazel laughed. “Oh ho! Still trying, bug? How adorable.”

Dean narrowed his eyes - narrowed everything - on Azazel. “Hello,” he said again. “My name is Dean Winchester. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” Azazel swung his sword at him in careless rage and Dean blocked it easily. Strength seemed to sing in his bones with every repetition of the words, like they were a prayer to a higher power, or to himself. “Hello,” he said again. “My name is Dean Winchester. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” He boxed Azazel into a corner, sent his sword flying across the room, and then sliced him in one smooth, serpentine move, skewering his shoulder just as Azazel had done to him. “Now,” Dean spat. “Offer me wealth beyond my dreams. Offer me everything you have.” He drove his sword into Azazel’s other shoulder.

Azazel cried out, his face full of rage and pain. “Yes,” he hissed. “Anything. _Everything_.”

“I want my father back, you son of a bitch,” Dean growled. He drove the blade of his father’s sword into Azazel’s heart, sliding the weapon up to its hilt. He watched in grim satisfaction as the light faded from Azazel’s eyes. The Count slumped across Dean’s bloodied hand, falling onto him. 

Dean collapsed to the floor under the weight of Azazel while red spread along the tiles.

* * *

Eileen raced through the maze-like hallways of the castle. She still felt a little woozy, off kilter like she hadn’t completely reattached to her body. _Slam._ Her shoulder glanced off another wall as she careened around the corner. She’d have bruises. Or more bruises. It didn’t matter as long as she found Sam.

They had left things so strained coming out of the fire swamp. During her months on the pirate ship Eileen had spent a great deal of time trying to convince herself that Sam was better off apart from her. But after having him and then losing him so quickly and then dying… _I’ll be damned if I let anything stand in our way_ , she thought. 

Castiel had tried to describe the layout of the castle before their assault and Eileen tried to run through it. Sam’s chambers should be nearby and beyond those lay the chapel. She would check his room first. The hallways remained eerily empty until she arrived in the corridor where Sam’s room was supposed to be. Three guards stood in the hallway, milling in front of a single door. The first saw her right away and started towards her, drawing up a long, lethal looking halberd. She pointed it at Eileen, its sharp tip glinting maliciously in the torchlight. Eileen froze as the other two stood back. 

“Okay,” Eileen smiled at them, dark and dangerous. “This is your one chance to flee with your lives. I’m sure you know my reputation?” The woman with the halberd simply leveled a cool look on her but the other two shifted on their feet and exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Go on,” Eileen said. She raised her sword just a fraction, enough for the light to split off its edge. “Run now, or be run through.” Slowly, as though tiptoeing away from the guard with the halberd, the other two backed up until they reached a right angle turn. With a clatter of armor they were away. The guard whipped her head around and when she turned back it was with a sneer on her face. 

“You may have everyone else fooled, pirate,” the guard said. “But you haven’t fooled me. I heard about your capture, you see. And beyond that, I know you haven’t been the Dread Pirate Roberts for long.” She tapped her nose. “I know people in low places.”

Eileen glared, adrenaline coursing through her body as she readied herself for the fight to come. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough,” the guard said, “to know I have years of fighting experience over you. You’re a filthy little figurehead and I’m going to enjoy cutting you down.”

Eileen steadied her sword, sucking in one long, slow breath after another. Just as she’d done while trapped on the ship, she channeled her rage. Her body became a weapon and her attention whittled down to just one thing. Cutting down her opponent. Eileen’s fingers tightened on the hilt. She raised her sword and rushed forward to attack.

Eileen danced around the deadly halberd. While an excellent weapon in battle, and very intimidating, the halberd did a poor job in the narrow stone corridors of the castle. Eileen rushed forward straight for the tip of the halberd’s blade. Just when it looked as though the weapon might impale her, Eileen coiled her muscles and sprang into a tight forward jump, somersaulting to land on her feet just within the circle of the halberd. The guard hastily tried to pull back the deadly weapon and catch Eileen’s back as she drew it in, but Eileen was too quick. She made one neat thrust with her sword and it sliced between the woman’s ribs. The guard clapped a hand over the wound, her mouth open in surprise. And then she collapsed to the floor with a hard clatter of weaponry and bone. Eileen grimaced at the kill, rolling the guard away from her with one foot. She wiped off her blade as best as she could and then tried to open Sam’s door. 

The door swung open easily. “Sam?” Eileen called, weapon raised in case there were more guards stationed within the room. She looked around frantically and saw him tied to the bedpost, a gag in his mouth. “Sam!” Eileen rushed to him and scrambled to pull the gag from his mouth and down beneath his chin. Sam worked his jaw and leaned into her touch as she ran a hand along his cheek. “Are you okay?” 

Sam nodded. “I’m alright,” he said. “And you? Is that blood?” 

Eileen nodded slowly. “But not mine.” She dropped her hands to the knots that bound his wrists and tested the knots. They were tightly bound so she reached for her belt knife instead. She was just pulling it out when she saw a shadow skitter across the wall behind Sam’s head. It was the smallest movement, but Eileen narrowed her eyes and turned quickly, the knife swinging out. She connected the blade to the princess’s throat. 

The princess swallowed, skin pressing into the knife edge as she did so and she raised one eyebrow. “You should be dead,” she said with remarkable composure for someone with a razor sharp blade to their throat. 

“So should you,” Eileen pointed out, “if there’s any justice in the world.”

The princess tsked. “You know there isn’t.”

“I could slit your throat,” Eileen said with a saccharine smile. “That would be a start.”

“Kill me,” the princess warned, her calm mask falling away and revealing anger, “and an entire kingdom will hunt you down.” Her eyes shifted to look over Eileen’s shoulder and she smiled. “Ah, your lover is trying to bargain again. He did such a fantastic job of it last time. You know, I thought it would be wonderful to have him killed before the wedding but Sam dying on his wedding night at the hand of the Dread Pirate Roberts herself? Well, you can’t make up a better story.”

Eileen watched the princess, measuring her up. Her threats certainly weren’t idle. If Eileen killed the princess, then the aging king and queen would likely call war down upon anyone who dared to destroy their bloodline. Since Eileen had made her way into the castle as the Dread Pirate Roberts, there was a steady line tracing any bloodshed directly back to her. While most people didn’t know of her identity, there were enough who could be bought by the palace’s money to ferret her out of whatever cover she could scrape together. “So a bargain of my own, then. I don’t kill you and you let us go. In return we’ll disappear entirely. You can come up with whatever story you want. Frankly, I don’t care how you speak of me or what tale you spin. Only know this. If harm comes to Sam or to anyone under my protection I will come for you myself. I’ll be the shadow along the wall, blade so fast you won’t feel my cut before you fall.” Eileen pressed her knife against Lilith’s throat in emphasis. “And that’s a promise.”

Lilith gasped in pain. Her eyes flicked between Eileen and Sam and then her mouth quirked up in a bitter smile. “Fine,” she said. “Deal.”

“Good,” Eileen said. She whipped her other hand into a fist and swung it into Lilith’s jaw. The princess crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Eileen bent to examine Lilith, pulling the woman’s blade from her belt and tossing it onto the bed. Then she turned to Sam and hastily cut through his bonds. “We should tie her up but Sam, we don’t have much--”

Sam cut her off with a kiss, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. For just a moment, Eileen let herself fall into his arms as she’d longed to do. Sam was warm, solid, and here. She pulled away reluctantly, though and looked up at Sam. “We need to tie her up and then--”

There was a flurry of movement at the door and Eileen turned towards it, sword held high. Dean Winchester rushed into the room. He was covered in blood, one hand wrapped around his midsection as though in pain. He stared at Eileen and Sam, then down at the princess on the floor. “Oh,” he said. “You found him.” He looked around the room, his forehead furrowed in concern. “Where’s Cas? And Bobby and Donna?” He gulped. “Are they--” He couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“I don’t know,” Eileen said, beckoning him over. “But we’ll find them, I swear. Here, help me tie her up.”

Together, the three of them bound Lilith to the bedpost. Dean grabbed her knife from the bed, whistled appreciatively at the gem-studded hilt, and slipped it into his belt. 

Sam touched Eileen’s shoulder to get her attention. “Where do you think we can find--” He broke off mid-sentence, chin jerking up and eyes widening. He began to smile and wrapped one hand around her waist, pulling her along towards the window. Sam pointed down at the courtyard and waved at the figures below.

Donna, Bobby, and Castiel waited under the window, seated on fine, large horses. Donna beckoned towards them broadly and then at three more horses waiting under the eaves. Eileen turned to Sam, unable to contain her grin. “Ready to get out of here?”

“You have no idea,” Sam said.

Eileen looked over at Dean. “Can you make it down the wall with your injuries?” She gestured to the large gaps in the stonework. 

Dean winked at her. “‘Course I can,” he said. And without further ado, he swung himself over the sill and began to clamber down. 

Eileen seized Sam’s hand and pressed it to her lips, then said, “You’re going down next. I’ll be right behind you.” 

“I don’t want to leave you,” Sam began but Eileen shook her head, stopping his lips with one finger. 

“You won’t. We’re doing this together from now on.”

Sam pressed a kiss against her finger and nodded. “From now on,” he said solemnly. Together, they climbed out of the window and down to the courtyard. 

* * *

The wind scoured the hills, startling the remaining leaves on the trees into a frenzied roar like the ocean. Their small troupe of fugitives sat wrapped in the warm blankets Donna had purloined from a storeroom on the way to the stables. Talk was light. It had been a long day and Sam suspected that everybody was exhausted. 

Dean lay with his head on Castiel’s lap, the pair of them looking utterly content in sleep. As soon as they’d cleared the edge of the city Castiel had ordered a stop to their horses and taken the reins of Dean’s horse to draw him near. Dean had sat on the saddle, pale and faltering, the stain of lost blood muddying his clothing. Castiel had dug around in his jerkin pocket until he pulled out a flask with a small cry of triumph. He held it up to Dean. “From Miracle Missouri,” he said. “A healing draught. She thought I might need it. Take it, Dean. It’s yours.”

Dean had waved it away, protesting that a healing draught would heal Castiel just as well. But Castiel, with more passion and level fury than Sam had ever before witnessed in him, had dressed down the former kidnapper. “Dean,” he’d said, his voice shaking with barely suppressed emotion. “You wanted a second chance, right? Well, you don’t get one if you’re dead. Take this, and come back to me. We can face this world together. Don’t you see? It’s better that way.” Dean blinked at those words. He reached out and took the flask, then swallowed the healing draught. Missouri’s magic worked so well that by the time they made their camp his wounds had healed over with a new layer of skin and his breathing had ceased its alarming whistle. 

As for Sam, he had Eileen in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. “Where to?” he asked, his hands brushing before her face.

“I don’t know,” Eileen replied. “Away from here. Away from the sea. It might be a hard life…”

“Nonsense,” Bobby had interrupted from his spot near Donna. He signed to Eileen, “I got your bride price for Sam in my saddle bags. Dug it up from the farm as soon as I got wind of the moved-up wedding. Something just didn’t sit right. So this escape’s on me.” 

Sam shot a sorrowful look at Bobby. “I’m so sorry about this,” he said. “Dragging you into this. You’re a wanted man now. And the farm is--” Sam sighed. 

Bobby frowned at him. “This isn’t what I’d planned for you, that’s true. I wanted you to get an education. To make your way in society in a way I never could. I’ll admit to that. But life don’t always turn out the way you planned.” He sighed deeply and tilted his head toward the stars. “You know, I never told you. Karen and I always talked about travel. But the nature of farming meant that was more dream than anything. Now I get to travel. And I get to do it with my son and the woman he loves. Sometimes you gotta go where family is and are better for it, blood or not.”

Donna cleared her throat and looked at Sam. “Funny you should say that. On the topic of blood.” She untied a pocket lashed to her belt and shuffled through it, pulling out a rolled sheaf of papers. “When I was getting maps at the library I looked into a few things. Dean often talked about a younger brother, Sam, who’d been lost around the time his father died.” She handed the papers to Sam, who unrolled them.

Sam sat up, flipping through the worn sheets. “But these are adoption records,” he said. “For me.” He turned to Bobby. “Did you know about this?”

Bobby glanced through the papers, brows lifting in surprise. “Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants,” he said, looking at Donna. “You telling me my Sam and this boy Dean are brothers?” He jabbed a finger at Dean’s slumbering form.

“Looks like it,” Donna said.

Sam stared at them both in shock, speechless. Eileen grabbed his hand and stroked it comfortingly. “That’s quite a coincidence,” she said.

Bobby started to laugh. “Well. When I see Karen again, I’ll have lots of stories to tell her. Like this one we’re living through right here.”

“Oh yeah?” Eileen asked. “Hope you come up with a good ending.”

Bobby looked fondly Sam and Eileen across the banked coals. “They all ride away into the sunset and live happily ever after.”

“A happy ending?” Sam asked.

“You bet your ass,” Bobby said with a pleased grin. 

Sam settled back with a contented sigh drawing Eileen back to rest against his chest. “Sounds perfect.”

* * *

“You always were a sap in the end. But I’ll concede, that wasn’t bad.” Metatron tilted his head at Chuck in consideration. He twirled a finger and _The Princely Bride_ flew from Chuck’s hands and landed on a stack of books next to the bed. A stuffed snowman dropped onto the pile like a sentinel. “You should read it to me again tomorrow.”

Chuck rolled his eyes at the cantankerous angel but a half smile slipped out. He patted the book cover softly. “As you wish.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal apologies to my childhood crush, Inigo Montoya. Dean Winchester, I love you a ton but you're no Inigo. *Doodles Inigo's face in the margins of this story*
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
